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.