How pleasant were our bodies in the days of Chaos
Needing neither to eat or piss!
Who came along with his drill,
And bored us full of these nine holes?
Morning after morning we must dress and eat;
Year after year, fret over taxes.
A thousand of us scrambling for a penny,
We knock our heads together and yell for dear life.
Hundun, (also huntun), is translated in the above poem as "Chaos," in an earlier post I translated it, totally undifferentiated chaos. It is the closest a human can come to experiencing Dao. Did someone say soup? Hold on, I'm getting a text. It was...the wind.