I've used withes and wickers to weave
My backpack to travel back home,
My native place. In the right hand
I hold my knotty rattan stick --
That's all I have got as an old pilgrim.
My sandals are worn completely in --
The monsoon rain is still sheeting down.
In daytime dream I time and again
Try to fix and spread my broken wings,
Putting in order the plumage of my soul.
The reason why I do this no matter what
Is the bright light at the end of the tunnel,
I still trust in which, is just around
The next curve where the sea of sparks
Will swirl down on me from the open skies.
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