What are you doing?
I'm writing my friend,
Stroking black ink on
Blank paper with pen.
What, though, is the purpose
Of this earthly toil,
It's useless to drafting
Or seeding the soil.
Even a housemaid
Brings water to boil!
Oh friend, dear friend,
Why cannot you see
The worthiness of poetry?
The keeper, the sower,
The draftsman in turn
Their daily wages
Duely earn,
And like the vulture
Tearing to the bone,
A man subsists
Beyond his bread alone.
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