WRITTEN IN THE 12TH MONTH, KUEI YEAR OF THE HARE, FOR MY COUSIN CHING-YÜAN

At this distant, bramble-woven gate, my

wandering come to rest, the world and I

let each other go. Not a soul in sight.

At dusk, who knows my gate sat closed

all day? This year-end wind bitter cold,

falling snow a thick, day-long shroud,

there isn’t a trace of sound. I listen,

eyes aching from all this white clarity.

Cold seeping inside robes, cups and bowls

rarely agreeing to be set out for meals,

it’s all desolation in this empty house,

nothing anywhere to keep our spirits up.

Roaming through thousand-year-old books,

I meet timeless exemplars. I’ll never

reach their high principles, though I’ve

somehow mastered resolute in privation,

and there’s no chance renown will redeem

this poverty. But I’m no fool for coming

here. I send findings beyond all words:

who could understand this bond we share?