In my late years, only quiet seems good.
My heart’s not given to ten thousand things.
I take care of myself with no serious plan and,
empty of knowledge, go back to my former woods.
Wind blows in the pines and I loosen my sash;
In the rays of the mountain-moon, I pluck my lute.
Your question implies a tired man knows the inner logic —
the fisherman’s song goes out into the estuary, deep.