This evening only the lonely ones come and go upon
the white wall in a narrow room.
On this white wall are
a fifteen-watt bulb casting a weary light,
a dark shadow resting upon the worn-out cotton shirt soaked with dirt and sweat,
and many strings of my lonely thoughts wandering about, thinking
a cup of warm and sweet kamju would be perfect.
But then, what is it?
On this white wall
there is my mother, old and poor —
my old and poor mother rinsing the radishes and cabbages,
her hands in the icy water on a day frozen, pallid, blue.
And there is my beloved —
my dear beloved at a dinner table with a bowl of codfish soup
sitting face to face with her husband
in a small house with a low roof in some quiet southern harbor-town.
She already has a child, the little one beside her.
Then, also, just about now
coming and going quickly on this white wall,
the words
watching my lonely face —
I was born in this world to live a poor and lonely, lofty and solitary life.
And as I go on living in this world,
my heart fills up with many things
blazing or desolate, with love and with sorrow.
And once again, this time, as if comforting me or urging me to join them,
these words come and go, signaling me with their eyes and shaking their fists —
When Heaven let this world begin, to all those he cherished and loved the most,
he granted a life of poverty and loneliness, loftiness and solitude, full of love and sorrow —
like a crescent moon, a wild flower, a mountain bird, and a donkey, and like Francis Jammes,
T'ao Yuan Ming, Rainer Maria Rilke.
the white wall in a narrow room.
On this white wall are
a fifteen-watt bulb casting a weary light,
a dark shadow resting upon the worn-out cotton shirt soaked with dirt and sweat,
and many strings of my lonely thoughts wandering about, thinking
a cup of warm and sweet kamju would be perfect.
But then, what is it?
On this white wall
there is my mother, old and poor —
my old and poor mother rinsing the radishes and cabbages,
her hands in the icy water on a day frozen, pallid, blue.
And there is my beloved —
my dear beloved at a dinner table with a bowl of codfish soup
sitting face to face with her husband
in a small house with a low roof in some quiet southern harbor-town.
She already has a child, the little one beside her.
Then, also, just about now
coming and going quickly on this white wall,
the words
watching my lonely face —
I was born in this world to live a poor and lonely, lofty and solitary life.
And as I go on living in this world,
my heart fills up with many things
blazing or desolate, with love and with sorrow.
And once again, this time, as if comforting me or urging me to join them,
these words come and go, signaling me with their eyes and shaking their fists —
When Heaven let this world begin, to all those he cherished and loved the most,
he granted a life of poverty and loneliness, loftiness and solitude, full of love and sorrow —
like a crescent moon, a wild flower, a mountain bird, and a donkey, and like Francis Jammes,
T'ao Yuan Ming, Rainer Maria Rilke.