There is a tree, so full of knots at its base.
Full of twisted branches, so irregular,
that it will never serve a carpenter's purpose.
The tree sits idle, in its wasteland surroundings.
Its purpose is its life's duration, alone in its beauty.
It will forever sit undisturbed.
Its permanance provides comfort.
Its shadey branches provide relief.
It claims no innate value to others.
How can I measure up to its ignoble importance.
How can I find my life's purpose, when I too,
sit useless and undisturbed in my wasteland.
-interpreted from the way of chuang tzu-
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