| 1 | 1
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| 2 | A dialogue on poverty
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| 3 | 2
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| 4 |
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| 5 | 3
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| 6 | On the night when the rain beats,
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| 7 | 4
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| 8 | Driven by the wind,
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| 9 | 5
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| 10 | On the night when the snowflakes mingle
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| 11 | 6
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| 12 | With a sleety rain,
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| 13 | 7
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| 14 | I feel so helplessly cold.
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| 15 | 8
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| 16 | I nibble at a lump of salt,
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| 17 | 9
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| 18 | Sip the hot, oft-diluted dregs of _sake_;
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| 19 | 10
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| 20 | And coughing, snuffling,
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| 21 | 11
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| 22 | And stroking my scanty beard,
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| 23 | 12
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| 24 | I say in my pride,
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| 25 | 13
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| 26 | "There's none worthy, save I!"
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| 27 | 14
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| 28 | But I shiver still with cold.
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| 29 | 15
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| 30 | I pull up my hempen bedclothes,
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| 31 | 16
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| 32 | Wear what few sleeveless clothes I have,
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| 33 | 17
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| 34 | But cold and bitter is the night!
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| 35 | 18
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| 36 | As for those poorer than myself,
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| 37 | 19
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| 38 | Their parents must be cold and hungry,
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| 39 | 20
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| 40 | Their wives and children beg and cry.
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| 41 | 21
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| 42 | Then, how do you struggle through life?
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| 43 | 22
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| 44 |
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| 45 | 23
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| 46 | Wide as they call the heaven and earth,
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| 47 | 24
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| 48 | For me they have shrunk quite small;
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| 49 | 25
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| 50 | Bright though they call the sun and moon,
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| 51 | 26
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| 52 | They never shine for me.
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| 53 | 27
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| 54 | Is it the same with all men,
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| 55 | 28
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| 56 | Or for me alone?
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| 57 | 29
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| 58 | By rare chance I was born a man
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| 59 | 30
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| 60 | And no meaner than my fellows,
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| 61 | 31
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| 62 | But, wearing unwadded sleeveless clothes
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| 63 | 32
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| 64 | In tatters, like weeds waving in the sea,
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| 65 | 33
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| 66 | Hanging from my shoulders,
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| 67 | 34
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| 68 | And under the sunken roof,
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| 69 | 35
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| 70 | Within the leaning walls,
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| 71 | 36
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| 72 | Here I lie on straw
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| 73 | 37
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| 74 | Spread on bare earth,
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| 75 | 38
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| 76 | With my parents at my pillow,
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| 77 | 39
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| 78 | And my wife and children at my feet,
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| 79 | 40
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| 80 | All huddled in grief and tears.
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| 81 | 41
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| 82 | No fire sends up smoke
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| 83 | 42
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| 84 | At the cooking-place,
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| 85 | 43
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| 86 | And in the cauldron
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| 87 | 44
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| 88 | A spider spins its web.
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| 89 | 45
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| 90 | With not a grain to cook,
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| 91 | 46
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| 92 | We moan like the night thrush.
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| 93 | 47
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| 94 | Then, "to cut," as the saying is,
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| 95 | 48
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| 96 | "The ends of what is already too short,"
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| 97 | 49
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| 98 | The village headman comes,
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| 99 | 50
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| 100 | With rod in hand, to our sleeping place,
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| 101 | 51
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| 102 | Growling for his dues.
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| 103 | 52
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| 104 | Must it be so hopeless --
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| 105 | 53
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| 106 | The way of this world?
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| 107 | 54
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| 108 |
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| 109 | 55
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| 110 | -- Yamanoue Okura
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