Sitting alone on the steep and crumbly peak,

He faces four gateways, all the wind-blown;

Looking far into the distance, he follows

Heaven and Earth's winding -- as a rope

They unmoor the horizon shore. . .

Along toward evening, this old vagrant

Intimates with rosy clouds, his bosom friends

With whom he is delighted to share a jug

Of rose wine he has purchased in the hamlet

At the foot of the mountain before his ascent.

When millions and millions of pink petals

And violet flowers start to whirl and dance

In mid air, loading with fragrance the sky,

He, so hot, refusing to keep his clothes on,

Swings swiftly, like a top. Naked, as he was

At the day of his birth and with flowing hair,

He sings his childish songs, clapping in time

With his vocal trill. Lightly, he whiles away

Such a beautiful day, meeting the red sunset

Merged into the twilight of his thick head.