Dreamed of climbing a high plain,
On the plain was a deep well.
Climbing high, mind parched and thirsty,
Wished to see the deep spring's chill.
Pacing round the well, looking back,
Saw my reflection in the spring.
A bottle floating, sinking in the well,
No rope hung above the well's rim.
Thinking this bottle about to sink,
Frantically sought help.
Went all over the plain's villages,
Villages empty, dogs still fierce.
Returned to circle the well and weep,
Sobs choked, then stopped again.
Choking, the dream suddenly startled awake,
Woke to find the house silent.
Lamp flame bluish, hazy,
Tearful gaze seemed dazed and bright.
Bell tolls midnight just past,
Sitting or lying, heart hard to settle.
Suddenly recalled Xianyang plain,
Wasteland of ten thousand qing.
Earth thick, the grave pit deep,
Buried soul lies in the deep ridge.
Ridge so deep, how can I cross?
Souls communicate sometimes, briefly.
Tonight, the one beneath the spring,
Transformed into a bottle, mutually aware.
Moved by this, tears flow freely,
Flowing tears soak my collar.
What pains is between waking and dreaming,
Suddenly perceiving the realm of life and death.
Is there no hope to share a grave?
Life's span, I trust, is long.
Yet fear our souls, before and after,
How can both be conscious?
Thoughts cycle endlessly,
Sitting till dawn begins to brighten.
Chanting this 'Dream of the Well' poem,
On a fine spring morning's scene.