The body’s like a sheep penned in a corral, fated to what must come. A sheep grows its wool; we wear fancy clothes. Strip away those clothes, we stand naked, hardly better than a sheep. Sheep die day after day, and people too perish every day. Seized and led away from the very first, we go just like a plump, fine sheep. The sheep dies in bitter suffering; the person departs without a wound. When life is cut off we are driven along after it, our souls passing through some strange land. Those with money heap up blessings, eating well and dressed in fine clothes; fools pile up sins without end, while the wise do well to ponder it.