PLAYTHINGS

    CHILD, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig¹ all the morning.

    I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.

    I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.

    Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with！"

    Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.

    I seek out costly² playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.

    With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.

    In my frail³ canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.