In a dilapidated three-room hut
I’ve grown old and tired;
This winter cold is the
Worst I’ve ever suffered through.
I sip thin gruel, waiting for the
Freezing night to pass.
Can I last until spring finally arrives?
Unable to beg for rice,
How will I survive the chill?
Even meditation helps no longer;
Nothing left to do but compose poems
In memory of deceased friends.
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Comments
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He captures the tragedy of this despondent mood and the deprivation of poverty with such raw honesty you can almost feel the chill.
This man seems torn between wants and needs and his denial of them, the idealism of youth grows dim within the harsh reality of old age. -
Old age...'Nothing left to do but compose poems/In memory of deceased friends.' Don't we feel immense love this old man whose only wish is for the winter to be less cold so that he can go out and beg?
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From guest Piper (contact)
Not complete desolation: he composes poems, he thinks of his dear departed, he prepares for the possibility of dying. These are all fruitful. Sometimes all you can do is wait for the night to pass. When that's the case, it makes no sense to do anything else. -
Sad, lonely with no hope for the future, desolation pervades
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