The world is hard to fathom, its ways stretch on and on.
How many grieve, and how many toil?
Seeking the peak of the Dao does not make one king.
Turn around, and even glory turns to sorrow.
The summit? I merely passed through on my way!
The road winds around the foot and middle of the mountain; at the peak, blades are drawn.
Each mountain stands higher than the last, and the tallest peaks always laugh at the lowly ones.
Even a mighty hand that could hold up the sky is twisted and entangled, forcing people to cast aside their innocent hearts.
All living beings build a stage in search of the Dao, like a song in a pleasure house, where every joy and sorrow onstage is a joke.
They say cultivators like us defy Heaven. But if fate comes crashing down, who suffers, and where can we go?
