On spring afternoons when toil is over,
I pawn my clothes, rush down to the river
And return home drunk at twilight.
Wine debts pass me everywhere I go.
Only a few men age to seventy years.
Butterflies sparkle in the heart of flowerfields.
Dragonflies skim the edge of water molecules.
Wind and light and time are ever moving onward.
Be still and feel this beauty of living.