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It floats about, that boat of cypress wood;
Yea, it floats about on the current.
Disturbed am I and sleepless,
As if suffering from a painful wound.
It is not because I have no wine,
And that I might not wander and saunder about.
My mind is not a mirror; --
It cannot [equally] receive [all impressions].
I, indeed, have brothers,
But I cannot depend on them,
I meet with their anger.
My mind is not a stone; --
It cannot be rolled about.
My mind is not a mat; --
It cannot be rolled up.
My deportment has been dignified and good,
With nothing wrong which can be pointed out.
My anxious heart is full of trouble;
I am hated by the herd of mean creatures;
I meet with many distresses;
I receive insults not a few.
Silently I think of my case,
And, starting as from sleep, I beat my breast.
There are the sun and moon, --
How is it that the former has become small, and not the latter?
The sorrow cleaves to my heart,
Like an unwashed dress.
Silently I think of my case,
But I cannot spread my wings and fly away.
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IATHPublished by The Institute for Advanced Technology in the Humanities, © Copyright 2003 by Anne Kinney and the University of Virginia