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+A dialogue on poverty
+
+ On the night when the rain beats,
+ Driven by the wind,
+ On the night when the snowflakes mingle
+ With a sleety rain,
+ I feel so helplessly cold.
+ I nibble at a lump of salt,
+ Sip the hot, oft-diluted dregs of _sake_;
+ And coughing, snuffling,
+ And stroking my scanty beard,
+ I say in my pride,
+ "There's none worthy, save I!"
+ But I shiver still with cold.
+ I pull up my hempen bedclothes,
+ Wear what few sleeveless clothes I have,
+ But cold and bitter is the night!
+ As for those poorer than myself,
+ Their parents must be cold and hungry,
+ Their wives and children beg and cry.
+ Then, how do you struggle through life?
+
+ Wide as they call the heaven and earth,
+ For me they have shrunk quite small;
+ Bright though they call the sun and moon,
+ They never shine for me.
+ Is it the same with all men,
+ Or for me alone?
+ By rare chance I was born a man
+ And no meaner than my fellows,
+ But, wearing unwadded sleeveless clothes
+ In tatters, like weeds waving in the sea,
+ Hanging from my shoulders,
+ And under the sunken roof,
+ Within the leaning walls,
+ Here I lie on straw
+ Spread on bare earth,
+ With my parents at my pillow,
+ And my wife and children at my feet,
+ All huddled in grief and tears.
+ No fire sends up smoke
+ At the cooking-place,
+ And in the cauldron
+ A spider spins its web.
+ With not a grain to cook,
+ We moan like the night thrush.
+ Then, "to cut," as the saying is,
+ "The ends of what is already too short,"
+ The village headman comes,
+ With rod in hand, to our sleeping place,
+ Growling for his dues.
+ Must it be so hopeless --
+ The way of this world?
+
+ -- Yamanoue Okura