Classic Poem

By twisting shoreline and deep pool
an old man of the mountains,
Eyes' movement halted watching the hook,
the hand does not move
Here, a worldly man who seeks to know
the fisherman's name,
Asks him, waits long — the old man
won't open his lips
A rainhat of young bamboo skins,
a coat of lotus leaves,
Nothing busying his mind,
he keeps to the fishing jetty
I suppose that single boat of his
has no fixed resting place —
Where will he go this evening,
his fishing pole in hand?