poem by Han Shan

Man lives his life in a dust bowl,
Just like vermin in the middle of the pot:
All day going round and round,
Never getting out from the inside.
Blessedness is not our lot:
Only nettlesomeness without end.
Time is like a flowing river—
One day, we wake up old men.

translated by Eugene Eoyang

4 thoughts on “poem by Han Shan

    • We are all drawn to what we identify with or what gives us comfort. Sometimes they are the same thing. Poetry gives me comfort. Those ancient Chinese poets often say what I wish to say.

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