There is a folk who fears his hoary head;

Unwilling to let go his “black dress

With red sash,” he picks up the herbs

To preserve his begetting power; besides,

He strives to become an immortal, I guess.

The golden roots and jade green shoots—

He digs obsessively up for sorting out.

For several years he has done this

With bearing no significant consequences;

With some crazy thoughts in his head

He stares angrily at each infrequent guest.

If you are by nature a man of hunting

Who wraps himself up in a robe

Of a devoted recluse or a venerable monk,

This is not an issue that you can hide

From your heart—your all-seeing judge.