(While caroming cross-legged between wats, Bob was not only gnawing on Bones, but had picked up his verse translation of the Dhammapada again, which he eventually completed and called The Track of Truth. -- Hūm)
However many verses one might say,
set, to no set purpose, side by side,
far better is one line about the Way
which, having heard, one's pacified.
Come, behold this world; 'tis as
the well-wrought carriage of a king.
Where fools are lost the wise man has
no desire for anything.
He who was heedless before,
but is heedless no more,
illumines this world,
once dark and in shrouds,
like the moon freed from clouds.
Sorrow is born from what's dear.
From attraction springs fear.
When from that liking one's fled,
there's no more sorrow. Whence dread?
This world is blind; there's few with sight.
As birds, escaped from nets, take flight,
those few go to realms of light.
His victory no one can alter or change.
No part of his conquest partakes of this plane.
That wakened one is beyond measure or range.
How trace a trackless one?
Where's that domain?