What this laughter, what this joy
When the world is ever on fire?
Shrouded all about by darkness,
Will you not then look for light?

Behold this beautiful body,
A mass of sores, a bone-gathering,
Diseased and full of hankerings,
With no lasting, no persisting.

Thoroughly worn out is this body,
A net of diseases and very frail.
This heap of corruption breaks to pieces.
For life indeed ends in death.

As gourds are cast away in autumn,
So are these dove-hued bones.
What pleasure is there found
For one who looks at them?

Of bones is this city made,
Plastered with flesh and blood.
Herein dwell decay and death,
Pride and detraction.

Splendid royal chariots wear away,
The body too comes to old age.
But the good's teaching knows not decay.
Indeed, the good tech the good in this way.

Just as the ox grows old,
So ages he of little learning,
His flesh increases,
His wisdom is waning.

Through many a birth
I wandered in Samsara,
Seeking but not finding the Housebuilder,
Painful is birth ever again and again.

O Housebuilder, you have been seen,
You shall not build the house again.
Your rafters have been broken,
Your ridge-pole demolished too.
My mind has now attained the Unconditioned,
And reached the end of all craving.

Having led neither a good life,
Nor acquired riches while young,
They pine away as aged herons
Around a fishless pond.

Having led neither a good life,
Nor acquired riches while young,
They lie about like broken bows,
Sighing about the past.