এই পাতাটির মুদ্রণ সংশোধন করা হয়েছে, কিন্তু বৈধকরণ করা হয়নি।
The bottom of the pond, from its dark,
sends up its lyrics in lilies,
and the sun says, they are good.
Your calumny against the great is impious,
it hurts yourself;
against the small it is mean,
for it hurts the victim.
The muscle that has a doubt of its wisdom
throtles the voice that would cry.
Mother with her ancient trees
points to the sky in endless wonder.
My self’s burden is lightened
when I laugh at myself.
The weak can be terrible
because he furiously tries to appear strong.
Realism boasts of its burden of sands
and forgets its loss in the current.
