Passing once through a local marketplace,

I witnessed an excellent tour archer

Who was exhibiting his archery

To a clot of idlers. Having drawn his bow

To its full extent and with a cup of water

Placed on his arm, he let his arrows fly

In a ceaseless row. That was amazing show!

As the first arrow was discharged,

Another one was in no time put in its place,

And as that was sent off in a blink,

A third was already lying on the string

Ready to flying, jam-free; all the while,

He stood as though deep-rooted, believe me.

Someone from the fairly strong crowd

Exclaimed, making no bones about

The crowd total admiration, saying,

“That’s the shooting of an archer, but not

Of one who shoots without thinking about

His shooting!” Then the same voice proposed:

“Let me go up with you to the top of a summit

To see if you can shoot the same lossless way

You are shooting on the ground. . .”

On this they went up a lofty peak,

Making their way among the bold cliffs,

Till they came to the brink of a precipice

Deep a whole mile. The man from the crowd

Turned round and walked backwards

Till his feet were two-thirds of their length

Outside the edge; then he beckoned the archer

To come forward, producing the same trick.

The archer, however, had fallen prostrate

On the boulder with the sweat pouring down

To his heels, utterly smashed. . .

Then the idler said the words I stored

Looks up to the azure heavens above

Or dives down to the yellow springs beneath

Or soars away to the eight ends

Of the boundless space without any deviation

But now the trepidation from fear

Appears in your dazed eyes,

Paralysing your mind. Your internal pressure

From your extreme fullness is so high!

It’s just because you are a devoted servant

Of your trade, your wonderful archery,

To never be like me, a master of my idleness

Who is always empty within. . .”