Classic Poem

Galloping around, north and south,
my head covered with dust.
My robe and shirt, completely tattered,
my cap with drooping corners!
Ten thousand falling petals — each of them a resentment;
only when the moonlight fills my winecup do I forget my poverty.
Even for incense and lamps, this Vimalakirti
cannot rise from his sickbed;
even cherries and bamboo shoots
do not help pass the Grain Rain days.
I look at myself in the mirror — and laugh out loud:
for half my life, I've been a character in a puppet play.