WHAT IS THIS melody that overflows nay life, only I know and my heart knows. Why I watch and wait, what I beg and from whom, only I know and my heart knows. The morning smiles like a friend at my gate, the evening droops down like a flower by the edge of the woods. The flute music floats in the air in the dawn and in the dusk. It beguiles my thoughts away from my toils. What is this tune and who plays it ever, only I know and my heart knows.
CHILD, HOW happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig 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 costly 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 frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.
