December 17^th, 2019

Without a jot of ambition left
I let my nature flow where it will.
There are ten days of rice in my bag
And, by the hearth,
A bundle of firewood.
Who prattles of illusion or nirvana?
Forgetting the equal dusts of
Name or fortune,
Listening to the night rain
On the roof of my hut,
I sit at ease,
Both legs stretched out.