Ah
me, why did they build my house by the road to the market town?
They
moor their laden boats near my trees.
They
come and go and wander at their will.
I
sit and watch them; my time wears on.
Turn
them away I cannot. And thus my days pass by.
Night
and day their steps sound by my door.
Vainly
I cry, "I do not know you."
Some
of them are known to my fingers, some to my nostrils, the blood in my
veins seems to know them, and some are known to my dreams.
Turn
them away I cannot. I call them and say, "Come to my house whoever
chooses. Yes, come."
In
the morning the bell rings in the temple.
They
came with baskets in their hands.
Their
feet are rosy-red. The early light of dawn is on their faces.
Turn
them away I cannot. I call them and I say, "Come to my garden to
gather flowers. Come hither."
In
the mid-day the gong sounds at the palace gate.
I
know not why they leave their work and linger near my hedge.
The
flowers in their hair are pale and faded; the notes are languid in their
flutes.
Turn
them away I cannot. I call them and say, "The shade is cool under
my trees. Come, friends."
At
night the crickets chirp in the woods.
Who
is it that comes slowly to my door and gently knocks?
I
vaguely see the face, not a word is spoken, the stillness of the sky is
all around.
Turn
away my silent guest I cannot. I look at the face through the dark, and
hours of dreams pass by.