This foolish man,
Where did he come from?
In this helpless age when the Dharma is in decay,
For what did he stick out his neck?
How lamentable — this noble lineage,
In late autumn, hangs so precariously on a strand of hair.
Casting his own affairs aside,
He cares only for others.
He stands on the solitary peak,
Dropping a straightened hook to catch a carp.
He enters into the bottom of the great sea,
Tending the fire, boiling ephemeral bubbles.
Finding no-one who can understand his tune,
He grieves alone, in vain.
His laughter shatters the void,
And he scolds himself for being slow-witted.
Alas, you ask,
Why doesn’t he just put everything down?
When the sufferings of all beings end,
Only then will he rest.
Generally just Being. Nothing in particular, no claims to fame. I like gardening and the sea, nature, art in all forms from poetry to films and everything in between, and being in the company of my family.
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