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Wander on, wanderer,
Wander up, up and down and up again.
Why are you wandering the shore?
(What are you searching for?)
The shore will be the same the thousandth time
You wandered back and forth.
Stare on, seeker, dry out your eyes.
Why are you staring at the clouds,
Trying to research its shades from pitch black to flaming red?
The clouds won't wave at you.
The sky won't give you a sign.
Hark on, listener of water's symphony.
Why are you trying to differentiate this composition's facets?
The waves won't spill out any truths
And beneath the surface no divine core will be revealed.
Why are you returning, wanderer, retiring in your cave?
Begging for comfort in the scents and tastes of lust?
The short delights of flesh – these sparks in an everlasting night –
Will be swallowed up afterwards by unequally darker despair.
So what to do, monk, minstrel of eternal longing?
Neither addiction to higher knowledge
Nor recourse to sensual pleasure will lead you to the sublime.
End the journey, bury the quest?
Wander on, wanderer.
Wander up, up and down and up again –
Continue seeking – go on harking – indulge in the sparks of lust.
But acknowledge: there won't be changes,
There won't be signs,
There won't be answers,
No fires lightning up the night.
Nonetheless: worse, not to be on any quest
Than on a meaningless quest emerging from the self.
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