11. Old Age (DHP146-156)

Minor Collection

Sayings of the Dhamma 146–156

11. Old Age

What is joy, what is laughter,

when the flames are ever burning?

Swathed in darkness,

would you not seek a light?

See this fancy puppet,

a body built of sores,

diseased, obsessed over,

in which nothing lasts at all.

This body is decrepit and frail,

a nest of disease.

This foul carcass falls apart,

for life ends in death.

These dove-grey bones

are tossed away like

dried gourds in the autumn—

what joy is there in such a sight?

In this city built of bones,

plastered with flesh and blood,

old age and death are stashed away,

along with conceit and contempt.

Fancy chariots of kings wear out,

and even this body gets old.

But the truth of the good never gets old—

so the good proclaim to the good.

A person of little learning

ages like an ox—

their flesh grows,

but not their wisdom.

Transmigrating through countless rebirths,

I’ve journeyed without reward,

searching for the house-builder;

painful is birth again and again.

I’ve seen you, house-builder!

You won’t build a house again!

Your rafters are all broken,

your roof-peak demolished.

The mind, set on demolition,

has reached the end of cravings.

When young they spurned the spiritual path

and failed to earn any wealth.

Now they brood like old cranes

in a pond bereft of fish.

When young they spurned the spiritual path

and failed to earn any wealth.

Now they lie like spent arrows,

bemoaning over things past.