What is joy, what is laughter,
when the flames are ever burning?
Shrouded by darkness,
would you not seek a light?
See this fancy puppet,
a body built of sores,
diseased, obsessed over,
in which nothing lasts at all.
This body is decrepit and frail,
a nest of disease.
This foul carcass falls apart,
for life ends in death.
These dove-grey bones
are tossed away like
dried gourds in the autumn—
what joy is there in such a sight?
In this city built of bones,
plastered with flesh and blood,
old age and death are stashed away,
along with conceit and contempt.
Fancy chariots of kings wear out,
and even this body gets old.
But the truth of the good never gets old—
so the good proclaim to the good.
A person of little learning
ages like an ox—
their flesh grows,
but not their wisdom.
Transmigrating through countless rebirths,
I’ve journeyed without reward,
searching for the house-builder;
painful is birth again and again.
I’ve seen you, house-builder!
You won’t build a house again!
Your rafters are all broken,
your roof-peak is demolished.
My mind, set on demolition,
has reached the end of craving.
When young they spurned the spiritual path
and failed to earn any wealth.
Now they brood like old cranes
in a pond bereft of fish.
When young they spurned the spiritual path
and failed to earn any wealth.
Now they lie like spent arrows,
bemoaning over things past.