Song of Contentment

With enough grain for a thousand holds—yet it’s still just three meals a day;
With money in ten thousand strings of wealth—yet it’s still only the days of black and white;
With ten mansions and courtyards—yet it’s still only one sleeping mat;
With a hundred fine carriages—yet it’s still full of worries and troubles;
With high office and generous pay—yet it’s still work every day;
With wives and concubines in numbers—yet it’s still only a night of pleasure;
With delicacies from mountains and seas—yet it’s still just a belly that gets fat;
With rank, honor, wealth, and riches—yet it’s still nothing more than a flash of passing cloud.