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.