I dream an island where all is in a good order,
Where solid ground is at your feet to go forth.
There're only roads that offer precise milestones,
The woods that conceal the time-proved gist,
The trees of which are bent under the weight
Of guesses. Pitch dark of night alternates with
Broad daylight, casting between joy and despair.

In the middle of the isle towers Mount Providence
With disentangled veins of fire boiled within its gut;
The Lake of Understanding, dazzlingly impartial,
Is replenished by the Spring of Regeneration.
The thicker the woods, the vaster waste ground--
The Vale of Evidence lies lower beneath four seas.
If any doubts arise, the wind dispels them at once,
Echoes stir and eagerly unveil all reverse secrets.

On the east slope of the Providence Mountain
There is a cave where Confidence hides itself;
The west slope of it is washed away by stream
Of Deep Conviction; Truth breaks from the foot
And bobs above the peak--Sincerity and Loyalty
Penetrate through the seventh heaven to Infinity.

The Island offers an excellent vista of Essence;
For all its charms, its wasteland is uninhabited
And remains unattainable; the faint footprints
Scattered on its beaches without a trace, as if
All you can do is just to transfer and escape
Into the parallel world, and never to return
Into the depths of bottomless life on mainland,
Which is a dream I've seen in my daily reality.