The world of our choosing surrounds us;
The objects familiar, and those
Others we picked, to amuse us-
Who've now grown uncomfortably close.
The world as we would, we were given
And we colored it, just as we will;
The minutes unfold, and we're living
In a small world become very real.
The world may be lacking in graces,
And its poetry all turn to prose;
You can never lament of its stasis
Or what, from your choices, arose.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem