The Strange Nature of Man
Man is a strange being,
finding devilry within himself,
yet wandering around singing
of the faults of others.
He sees his own errors from the start,
yet speaks only of the mistakes of others.
The one whose sins are beyond forgiveness
is the loudest in accusation!
He knows and he claims to know,
poison seems sweeter than honey to him.
The close one is distant, the distant feels near—
no comparison with one’s own kin!
I eat, I live,
I exist for my own gain.
If my interests are harmed,
all worldly dealings are absurd!
Some men exist,
bringing shame to the name of man.
As long as their own interests are intact,
even seven murders are forgiven.
If one appears saintly,
to assume they are virtuous is a grave mistake.
Through saints come most often
harm and grave misfortune.
What were the forefathers?
Landlords or beggars?
What have I achieved?
That alone should matter.
Born in a hut,
who says the mind will be narrow?
Born in a palace,
does it ensure a generous heart?
Ash thrown to the sky
does not become a star.
Dung blooming as a lotus
is not transformed into a treasure.
Gaining high posts by low cunning—
what good will it bring?
If one is not good within,
what use is all advice and counsel?
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