c00l b0y sitting alone In these quiet years growing calmer, Lacking knowledge of the world’s affairs, I stop worrying how things will turn out. My quiet mind makes no subtle plans. Returning to the woods I love A pine-tree breeze rustles in my robes. Mountain moonlight fills the lute’s bowl, Shows up what learning I have left. If you ask what makes us rich or poor Hear the Fisherman’s voice float to shore.