That cypress boat is drifting,
drifting with the flow:
fretful, fretful, I cannot sleep,
as if from a painful grief,
though I’ve no lack of wine
to ease and amuse me.
My heart is not a mirror,
you can’t just peer into it!
I too have brothers,
though not the kind to rely on.
I go to them with pleas,
only to meet their anger.
My heart is not a stone,
you can’t tumble it around;
my heart is not a mat,
you can’t just roll it up!
My conduct was pure and proper,
you cannot fault me there.
My grieving heart pains and sorrows,
I’m hated by those petty people
Trouble - I’ve seen plenty;
suffered insults - not a few.
Silently I brood on it,
awake, beating my breast.
You sun, you moon,
why do you take turns hiding?
Sorrow around my heart
like an unwashed robe -
silently I brood on it,
helpless to rise and fly away.
Poem number 26 in The Book of Odes, author unknown
Jon Edward Walker
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/that-cypress-boat-is-drifting/
