Once I said to a scarecrow, 'You must be tired of standing lone.“
Replying gruffly, “the joy of scaring is beyond depths to understand;
Nor do I ever tire, it’s my heart, my life, my cross, my home.”
Said I, after some thought, ‘Really, there are many who know such a joy.’
He said, 'Only those who are stuffed with straw can know life’s true-feel.'
Then I left him, not knowing whether he complimenting or condescending.
Two years passed, during which the scarecrow turned cross-philosopher.
In passing thereupon, I noticed two crows building a nest under his hat.
Vain our efforts, for our Achilles heel, left unsurrendered what does ill.
Lest, beneath Wisdom’s compass we’re survivor of the whole…
Open to Truth’s arrows, to piercing, so changing, so cold as death.
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem