Why do the old scowl; is it because
every day is just the same to them,
and their tasks all seem so thankless?
Dinner is meat and potatoes, served on a board,
no candles or flowers, only grunts and burping,
chairs scooting, fires that need more wood for burning.
Oh, it's all connected through a system of gears and levers,
all right; and though it may look artless, if one leg falls
out from under, it collapses and tumbles
over the cliffs, into despair-
And no one ever catches it, midair.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem