We the living, we’re passing travelers:
it’s in death alone that we return home.
All heaven and earth a single wayhouse,
the changeless grief of millennia dust,
moon-rabbit’s immortality balm is empty,
and the timeless fu-sang tree kindling.
Bleached bones lie silent, say nothing,
and how can ever-green pines see spring?
Before and after pure lament, this life’s
phantom treasure shines beyond knowing.