I ask the gray-green jungles
As old as trees' grandfathers'
grandfathers
As young as this last growing season
If I might learn to live among them,
But they, so silly as to indulge adult
cares,
Are not silly enough to speak to
The stupid question of youth.
I ask the full-bearded mountain,
Each whisker a wasted labor to shave,
If I will find welcome in this new
place,
But the mountain keeps the silence of
wisdom.
Oh, the fool thinks this place is new?
I ask the living, teeming streets
If this welcome might last,
If these young friendships
Might grow old with me,
and they keep their unsilence.
They do not stop to listen.
Their din won't change in answer.
They simply talk amongst themselves
As they have always done.
Perhaps they're waiting for me
To do something different.
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