You brush the dust away and
Read sutras on old bamboo slips,
Waiting for the moon’s company
To play the singing lute.
In Peach Tree Spring people
Have never heard a Han name.
Certain pines are Qing Dynasty officials.
Few people return to this empty ravine.
The sunless face of the blue mountain is cold.
I envy you the place where you are perched,
Watching a white cloud from far away.