In the Year Chi-hai , While Returning by Way of Purple Fungus Mountain at Springmouth, I Lamented for Lecture Master Chin

The way is still clear, as if in dream;
I enter, but the man's already gone.
The mountain, dark blue — ancient Buddha's hair;
the clouds, ink-black — the patriarch's robes.
We gambled at chess, equally bad players!
Now, looking at his portrait, it seems a bit too gaunt.
But who can avoid this in a hundred years?
All one can do is stop scheming and be calm.
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Tai Piao-y├╝an
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