Angry frontlights adorned the snow-clad road

Like ancient boats scaling the snakelike river;

Saints in deep meditation years long was

The portrait of the wise birds’ discussion.

Oh, what a life man leads,

Lamented the birds’ head.

He knows not empathy like the melting ice,

Not virtue like the righteous sun overhead;

Not generosity like the open-handed oceans infinite;

Not honesty like the clear river flowing perennial;

Not true love like the great mother’s heart;

Not ambition like the reckless dusty storms;

Not modesty like the humble tree waving noble;

Not courage like the supreme lion of the jungle;

Not originality like the cloud-painted blue canvas;

Not strength like the dark rocks braving the waves;

He knows not to live the life,

O dear comrades,

Man is like the mystic woods,

Living for himself to no good.

Here passes one,

To good or not,

Is his mind’s decision.

So fly away from him,

When we have the chance still,

Observed the wise old bird.

Flocked the feathery wave of birds,

Away from man’s kinship,

To freedom and silver glory.