Once a man receives this fixed bodily form, he holds on to it, waiting for the end. Sometimes clashing with things,

Once a man receives this fixed bodily form, he holds on to it, waiting for the end. Sometimes clashing with things, sometimes bending before them, he runs his course like a galloping steed, and nothing can stop him. Is he not pathetic? Sweating and laboring to the end of his days and never seeing his accomplishment, utterly exhausting himself and never knowing where to look for rest — can you help pitying him? I’m not dead yet! he says, but what good is that? His body decays, his mind follows it — can you deny that this is a great sorrow? Man’s life has always been a muddle like this.

__

Share: