What can I ask when ill fortune hangs above me? Before I dare turn around, I have already struck my head.
With a broken hat I cover my face through the noisy market; in a leaking boat I carry wine across midstream.
With stern brows I face the scorn of thousands; with bowed head I willingly serve as a humble ox for the children.
I hide in my small room and make it my own realm, caring not for winter, summer, spring, or autumn.