Let me time and again tell you of my dwelling place

In the deep mountains where white rack of cloud

Is always at rest to make me feel at ease and relaxed.

The monkey cries resound along their pathways;

The roars of tigers thunder far beyond men’s tracks.

Alone I step on the shaky boulders across the rapids;

I chant solo on the vines that are funny to climb up. . .

Winds in the pines—noisy rustle, moaning and rushing;

The birds sing in the branches, making a chirping chaos.

Everything is mixed up in the natural surround:

The lofty and the base, the slow and the fast,

The real and the sham. But once you clear up

And sort out the appropriate little shelf

For all the different things, you’ll find yourself

Decoyed back into the world of grief and despair.