Bent for rice, I bowed my waist; / For wine, I left my home, a weary chase.
‘Go back!’ they say, ‘who'd bid you stay?’
All past was wrong, today holds sway.
Dew not yet dry.
The guide points my way home, where children's laughter fills the sky.
Alas, old chrysanthemums run wild, pines age unseen, / My years have reached this scene.
A narrow window, humble door, my knees find space.
Leaning on my staff, I watch lone clouds and wild geese trace.
Clouds drift with no intent, birds tire and know their nest, / No calculated quest.
Ah!
Homeward I go!
Now self and world I both outgrow.
Kin speak no idle word; in lute and books, true flavors stirred.
Tread rugged green slopes' trail, / Drift on the winding stream, where hidden vales / With murmuring springtime waters pale.
See plants in joyful bloom, the recluse feels alone, / My journey's nearly done.
How long, this borrowed form beneath the dome?
Unaware, restless, where shall I roam?
My heart's own course—who plans its stay or flight?
Where gods reside, none knows; wealth holds no light.
I only know to chant by streams, climb peaks, / Raise my own cup, drunk for weeks.
This life's decree—why doubt its call?
Go with the flow, meet falls, and rest through all.