Who knows the infinite patience
(the bricklayer cutting bricks in the rain)
practiced by everyone in their life?
I will not write of mine, I will not discourse
on my infinite patience, for that would be to complain.
If you hear irritation in my intonation,
where’s my heralded patience then?
Every time I wake, or go to bed,
the dog wants to be let out again.
It happened. The dog became my friend.
It wasn’t my idea to get the dog. Nor the cats,
who require love I once gave only to you.
You were patient.
And death, who is the most beautiful,
waits patiently in this poem, too.
My imitations were tranquil.
Not one sigh. Where would my patience be then?
Nothing in this poem is complaining.
Why is the laborer in love? Why is it raining?