I have a bosom Chinese friend of mine

Who seems to be quite a strange guy but whom

I like so much. Why? He has once learned

To play English football, but he doesn’t love football;

He has learned to admire American efficiency,

But his soul revolts against efficiency;

He has also learned how to use table napkins,

But he hates table napkins and all throughout

Schubert's melodies and Chopin's polka and sonnets

He hears as an overtone, the echo of folk songs

And age-old pastoral lyrics of the “Book of Odes,”

Luring him back to his square courtyard in the mid

Between four housings of his grand ancestors—

The great heritage of no less great cultural legacy.

My Chinese friend explores the beauties and comfort

Of the Western style, but he has returned to the East,

To his native cradle of old traditions and wisdom,

Overcoming him when he is approaching forty—

The age of making tough decisions and final disillusion.

When my Chinese friend sees the portrait of his great

Grandfather, wearing a silk cap and he discards

His western dress and slips into Chinese gowns—

Oh man, such a comfort I read on his face,

So comfortable and so peaceful is his look—

For in his Chinese gowns and slippers his body

And soul come to rest at his approaching forty.

At the very bottom of his heart/mind he cannot accept

The Western white-collar and tie any more,

And wonders how he ever stood it for so long

While being in the western captivity.

In hometown he doesn’t play English football, either,

But has started to cultivate Chinese hygiene

Also known in the West as “qigong” and saunters

Along the drains in the mulberry fields

And bamboo groves and glossy willow banks

For his breathing exercise. And even this is not

“A country walk" as the English understand it,

But just a meditative ramble—the energy blend

Of the body and soul. He hates to pronounce

The word "exercise," from time to time asking me:

“Exercise for what? Isn’t it a ridiculous notion?

Why, even the sight of a respectable grown-up man

Dashing about in a field for a ball seems ridiculous,

Supremely ridiculous and more ridiculous still,

The wrapping oneself up in hot flannels and sweaters

After the game’s over on a hot summer day.

Tell me, why all the bother. Why all the bother?”

Time and again he reflects on that. He remembers

He used to enjoy it himself, but then he was young

And immature and he was not himself in the West.

It was but a passing fancy and he has not really

The instinct for sports. No, no! Full stop.

He is born differently; he is born for quiet and peace,

And not for white-collars and table napkins

And ballroom dancing and chamber music

And singing and attainment of American efficiency

And English football which, by the way, as some

First water experts say today, was first worked out

And put in the field in China. Yes, yes! No kidding.