Being down on his promotion,

Such an impoverished former officer

Is driven to extremity. . .

Facing starvation and cold,

His is a voice crying in the wilderness.

In painting and writing poems;

Unrolling ancient scrolls

And brushing through old books,

He tries to focus all his mental power

On reaching his muse of insight. . .

Such clumsy and coarse lines—

Who would like to collect them?

I would advise him to cease

From his derisive endeavours.

I say: “Were such crude verses

Inscribed on the brown scones,

Even begging cats and dogs

Would not give them a bite!”

But it seems he doesn’t care at all,

He goes into his daily literary battle,

Like a beast at bay. . .

Will he see reason in the end?

He replies, a little wistfully,

“May be in my next life. . .”