Remote and out of sight is the way to my mountain hut:

Steep and abrupt are the brinks of the cold rapids;

Chirp and twittering—there’s ceaseless roll call of birds;

Still and quiet—no wonder at all, there is not a soul.

Whispering and rustling—the wind blows in my face;

Layer upon layer—the snow piles up over my shoulders.

Day after day, alas, I see the sun no more;

Year after year I welcome no spring to come, . .

I don't care whether it's today or tomorrow

That my while crane arrives,

I will at least depart riding on my dragon-fish,

Which is waiting for me in the streamlet siding.