We are given with the body,

With its hundred parts, nine openings

And twelve internals to be divided

Into two symmetrical parts:

One is for acceptance, but another

Is for releasing all the received.

All bodily parts are complete

In their proper placements,

But which do we love the most?

Do we love them all equally?

Or do we love some more than others?

Do we love most of all the heart

And small intestine or the spleen

And stomach or the kidneys and bladder

Or the liver and gallbladder?

Is it not the case that they all act the part

Of our servants, nurses and, sometimes,

Gentlemen-in-waiting? All of them,

Being such, are they incompetent

To manage properly one another?

Or do they not take it in their turns

To be now masters and now servants?

There must be a true ruler among them,

Whether by searching we can find out

His character or not,

There is neither advantage nor hurt,

So far as the truth

Of the ruler's operation is concerned.

When once we have received

The bodily form complete,

Its parts do not fail to perform

Their functions till the end comes.

In conflict with things

Or in harmony with them,

They pursue their course

To the very end, with the speed

Of a galloping horse which cannot

Be stopped--is it not sad?

To be constantly toiling all lifetime,

Without seeing the fruit of one's labour,

And to be weary and worn out

With hard work, without knowing

Where one is going to--

Is it not a deplorable case?

Someone may say, "But it is not death,

Yet, of what advantage is this?

When the body is decomposed,

The mind is the same along with it--

Must not the case be pronounced

Too much shocking?

Is the life of man indeed enveloped

In such a dark cave?

Is it me alone to whom it appears so?

And does it not appear to be so

To all other folks around?. . .