Translated by an LLM; quality is not guaranteed.
The ceaseless rain has not yet startled summer to its end; at one window, I suddenly feel autumn deepen.
Sparse woods, lightly red, are encroached upon by yellow; cold light on the lake gradually seeps in.
Old shadows do not fade with autumn; when I look back, they are still beyond the dust of former days.
Now I have grown used to this self within; one inch of an old mark is still warm.
Fluorescent light in the small room; evening is waning once more.
The access chime is soft, the lift’s sound cold.
A thousand lines of code reach into the deep night.
The window is still lit; I am still before the screen.
Home again—dust covers the old bed.
No clearing cups and plates, no straightening clothes.
Beyond the glass window is a September sky.
Yesterday was the same; tomorrow will be the same.
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.