Writing Again on the Same Theme

The sun's high, I've slept enough, still too lazy to get up;
in a little room, quilts piled on, I'm not afraid of the cold.
The bell of the Temple of Bequeathed Love — I prop up my pillow to listen;
snow on Incense Burner Peak — rolling up the blind, I look at it.
K'uang's Mount Lu, a place for running away from fame;
marshal — a fitting post to spend old age in.
Mind peaceful, body at rest, this is where I belong.
Why should I always think of Ch'ang-an as home?
Author of original: 
Po Ch├╝-i
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