Translated by an LLM; quality is not guaranteed.
Warm sun on the long street, wind brushing my temples; forest light reels backward without end.
The wheels hurry me eastward through the city.
Near dust streams like water; distant haze fades without a trace.
Suddenly I feel the vast sky has never moved; the Nine Heavens still wear their first face.
A thousand years among humankind—one hurried instant.
Who knows, beyond the sea of clouds, an ancient god’s eye has watched for all eternity?
Like lightning, I pass the long street beneath warm sun; Woods blur and sweep along my side.
Clouds hang beyond the sky since time began; Wild hues race into misty distance.
I look down on the human world as on an old dream; The dark-blue vault says nothing, sealing the primordial vastness.
Only now, adrift in life, I know I am a guest; At heaven’s edge, all lies heavy and beyond measure.
Fine rain on empty steps—the soul cannot let go; traces of fragrance curl lightly around the lamp.
In dreams the peach blossoms open, fewer again. Startled, I would ask—but wind scatters the question into a lonely window at dawn.
Deep among floating lamps, each sound breaks off; paper ashes drift lightly, dust-shadows small.
One thought burns the heart and cannot be swept away. Who remembers me? My shadow falls quietly in the cold lamp’s deepest place.
Sky-blue, one shade of violet;
let all things follow spring into emptiness.
The heart grows distant and leaves flowers to fall;
this body, too, is among them.
Marketplace smoke and dust lodge among the nine trades; in rivers and lakes I laugh, never seeking a marquisate.
A body’s hidden schemes conceal wind and rain; half a dying lamp illuminates whether to go or stay.
Names and righteousness have always fed mockery; right and wrong are mostly left to barren mounds.
On the jolting road of the world, one learns the art of survival; even in the mud of a turbid age, I still raise my head.
Hibiscus locks the flowers while leaves fly high; at the Twenty-Four Bridges, strings and pipes turn desolate.
After writing, the heart starts as if facing a blade; slowly I push back the light sleeve and change into a cold-weather robe.
Dream enters the night of a lone lamp; my body follows the grief of a severed goose.
Rivers and mountains have no settled color; wind and snow arrive by themselves from the border.
Cold sounds invade the short dream; a lonely window locks night-moss away.
Dwelling alone, evening brings regret; tears fall and soak the book held to my breast.
Cold pounding-stones pierce the night watch; a frosted moon falls over a lonely peak. After writing, the heart startles at the cold; I brush my clothes as lamplight dims.
Dream returning, the shock does not end; resolve is split while affairs remain blocked. I wish to speak but no sentence comes; in vain I finger the old trace on my sleeve.
Snow country of another world: soul congealed, shadow fixed, I tread through a year’s clear ice. Dreams return to heart-wounding affairs; once I waited for spring grass to grow. Wind and cloud have changed; heaven’s light falls into ravines. Lips sealed, tongue tied: year after year of desolate cold. After swallowing medicine, the wind still seems tender, and I almost return to the river city.
Time turns and the soul starts awake; I gather tears and set out again. My heart is full of regret and grief—half a life squandered, one body sick and wounded. Wandering, where can the human Way be found? Heaven’s Way is distant; the world’s Way has no feeling. I gather every word written in blood and point it toward the Southern Cross.
By chance I remember using meth*, thinking then it took little effort. Only lately have I begun to understand those old books—how much was spent in emptiness.
Last night a panic attack came; I do not know what the road ahead will be. I could only take zolpidem; there is no one left to tell the matters of my heart.