Feng Ru Song · Music and Song at Midnight

Tall bamboo sways its shadows, wind runs through the pines, and it sounds like a sheng being played. Before the moon I brush the sword and taste the quiet of the heart; the past has gone cold — how could one bear to cherish that ache? Year round the banked snow never melts; has the departing wild goose ever once come to rest?

The sound of oars goes far off, and another winter comes; training the horse, I struggle to move on. Remembering: on the meditation couch the tea-mist rises, talk in the wind, laughter, the sincerity of being young. I staked everything of half a life on one throw; grown old, I find instead that I delight in having nothing to contend for.