I'd like to read this poem.
It's appropriate perhaps to do so.
It was written in Oracle.
I spent a few days there some time ago.
It's a poem called The Brother.
When morning came I rose and made tea
and sent off my brother.
In the quiet house I sat down to wait.
The day knocked on my door with its sack of where's.
The evening looked in my window with
its inconsolable gray eyes.
On the table the lamp was lit.
My brother came home then, white dust on his shoes
and a tiny blue flower in his cap
weary as if it danced a long time
or met a girl in the fields.
When I touched his sleeve, my fingers
brought away a fragrance of mint and grass.
Now my brother wants sleep and moves foolishly at my bed.
What I want is to wash his feet and send him off again tomorrow
with a stone in each shoe and one for each hand
and no bread in his pocket.