Sitting quiet, drinking tea, I laugh at my old life;
whyever did I wander through the dusty world?
Love and war passed away like rain in the desert,
both of them as pointless as a game of dice.
My losses heaped themselves high as a stony mountain;
my winnings faded on the wind like seventh-month smoke.
Now I’m back again at last, right where I began.
Beyond my old windows the sparrows are still calling.