Classic Poem

The tumbleweed that leaves its root and stock,
Drifts with the big wind, hither and thither blown.
Why did I think to ride on the whirlwind's back?
It blew me up into the very clouds
Higher and higher, up through the infinite,
What ending is there to the roads of Heaven?
This is the life the wanderer must lead,
Who pledges himself to fight in far-off wars
The coarse hair-cloth not enough to cover his body,
His belly never full, not even with bracken or beans
Away, away, never speak of this again
It is our bitter sorrows have made us old.