It’s too cold,
too hot,
too late in the evening—
people who say this,
shirking their work:
The moment passes them by.
Whoever regards cold & heat
as no more than grass,
doing his manly duties,
won’t fall away
from ease.
With my chest
I push through wild grasses—
spear-grass,
ribbon-grass,
rushes—
cultivating a heart
bent on seclusion.
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