July 17th, 2015

Everyone has his pleasure,
But only my pleasure is real.
Once quiet,
Myriad thoughts disappear;
Not a mote of dust
In the empty house.
Snow cleans the apricots’ bones,
Mist feeds the bamboo’s spirit.
Let bridle and rope
Reach far as they may,
They cannot tie up
This untrammeled mind.

Wen-siang (1210-1280)