One hand washes the other,
Both hands wash the face.
Is it dangerous to think?
Perhaps old fashioned.
Not antique thought,
Though, forgotten.
When one hand is out,
The other one is rotten.
Two hands and one face,
This will never go away,
So chop the dead tree,
And burn its wood.
For the live tree reaches,
Turns musty, stale air true,
So lend me a hand this day,
And tomorrow I'll owe you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem