Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning. br I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig. br I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour. br Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!" br Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies. br I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver. br With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain. br In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.