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.