Classic Poem

A rivulet and tall trees surround my brushwood gate,
settled long here, east of the castle, in a fertile land.
Nothing to do in the old age heaven has offered me,
with all sorts of growths having taken root.
The yeast that intoxicates me, this taste in a cup,
I paint bamboo: reeds or hemp? these brush stains.
Don't know: in a previous life I must have been a nun;
I love this quiet simplicity away from dust and noise.