Short Poems

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth.
I look at you, and I sigh.

With wild hair, you block out your characters.
Deep in the mountains, you engrave your poems.
Don't even mention this man's " bone and marrow " —
who could even imitate his " skin? "

White clouds like a scarf enfold the mountain's waist;
stone steps hang in space — a long, narrow path.
Alone, leaning on my cane, I gaze intently at the scene,
and feel like answering the murmuring brook
with the music of my flute.

The white clouds beyond the sky —
this must be your home.
Both cheeks slightly red, a diet of cinnabar!
But don't expect any magic mushrooms
to give you immortality;
you're wasting your time, digging with your spade,
damaging the purple mist.

Where is this beautiful song being sung,
with its short and long notes?
Shore-wind, sand-rain mingling with the sad sound!
There's no need to hear it at the ends of the earth
to be deeply moved:
I'm only one day away from home, and it's breaking my heart.

What family has built a house beside the rapids here?
In the fifth month, the rapids' gurgle
sounds so cool inside.
They've planted trees — already large enough
to tie a horse —
and opened windows — from them you can drop
a fishing line.

Would God I knew there were a God to thank
When thanks rise in me!

Beard white, face a little ruddy,
pleasantly fuzzy, already half drunk.
A hundred years pass with the wave of a hand;
ten thousand affairs — one turn of the head and they're gone.
Lying sick in bed, a skinny Buddhist believer;
walking along singing, a daft old man.
And now I hear that lovers of the curious
are going to paint me on a screen!

Loving the breeze on clifftops, I climb to a shelter of pines,
entranced by moonlight, beside the pond sit on a stone ledge,
and with these clouds and fountains I form bonds of karma —
in another life, certain to be a monk of this mountain!

I lay the ch'in on the curved stand,
sit idle, mulling my thoughts.
Why bother to pluck the strings?
Winds blowing over them will make their own sound.