Liu Yao Ling · Two Realms

Standing astride two realms, the divine tree grants an early spring. A civet rustles and darts away, making straight for the cherry-blossom butterflies to vex them. A sidelong glance: the wind soft, the snow spreading; sitting in forgetfulness, the clear light grows deep. The dusty world runs to make its report—and in the end, a mind full of the rivers and lakes is all wasted effort.

Longing desperately for the blue luan to fly in, to retire from office and go back to the temple of heaven. Having seen enough of the four seasons' impermanence, at ease, letting the heart shine as it will. I hold the cup and sip the white tea's slender leaves, cutting off the brazier's curling smoke. Ah, to cultivate the Way—asking for no calculation—let me be drunk on the fine hour and the good within it.