Chapter One

In the past you had faith,

today you have none.

What’s yours is yours alone—

I’ve done nothing wrong.

Faith is impermanent, fickle:

or so I have seen.

Passions wax and wane:

why would a sage waste away on that account?

The meal of a sage is cooked

bit by bit in this family or that.

I’ll walk for alms,

for my legs are strong.