I live here on paint and on toxoid

Written by my father, translated by me
I live here on paint and on toxoidMy step faltering, against walls, against barriersAround me I see nature destroyedReplaced by some structures for settlers.I live here with no joy, no regret And scribble little rhymes just for meI live... No longer preach at the gate,Nor squash any ants carelessly.In their hiding place they seem to await And observe me, in all probability.I live with no account and no friendNo longer try to right wrongs in the world,I cannot tell my future, my endSimply listen to the waves, to my heart.At set, prescribed times I just swallowPills encoded by various pigmentsAnd let my mind labor to followThe secret paths of this universe.
It is clear to me now: There is no amityThere has never been any beginning,And all that is here, that is growingWas here and it always will be.In space there is no upper or lower   No right and no left all around,  The moment is here—no past, no foreverThere is no first, no last or well-found. Only an unending, unstoppable flowAnd shapes that are shifting at will There is no heaven, only hell and oweThere is time, there is space, there is still.There is no happiness, no sorrow, no feelingOnly waves dancing without and withinIn a struggle with no hatred, no foamingWithout saints, without angels or sin.
So call this entirety: Yin.
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