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Mountain Living

When I go alone to fast at the temple,
affairs of the dusty world are no more my concern.
Refusing horse and saddle, I go by indigo carrying chair.
Black-robed Buddhists I take for friends now.
Morning meal—just some medicinal greens;
night companion—only the gauze lamp.
If you overlook my blue official's jacket,
in all other respects I'm a monk!

Forty-five

Age — forty-five,
hair on the sides gone half gray,
slender and trim, poetry his great failing,
brusque, hearty, a bit wild when drinking,
older now, leaving all to fate,
any place comfortable he calls home.
Who knows — on Mount Lu next spring
he may even build a thatch-roofed hall!

Eyesight Failing

When I was young I drove myself, strained my eyes reading;
in late years, grieving, I've shed so many tears —
for all I know the hurt to my eyes is wholly self-inflicted;
ailing now, I understand, but what's to be done?
Evenings my vision dims, as though the lamp were fading;
mornings, bleary-eyed, I think the mirror hasn't been cleaned.
A thousand drugs, ten thousand remedies can work no cure —
nothing to do but close my eyes, practice Buddhist austerities.