The flow of the current days
Has neither banks nor coasts;
The ocean cannot be overflowed
With all the world's rivers and streams.
The first day of a lunar month
Feeds the last one to be sacrificed.

When the time to retreat brings me
In the dense forest called 'taiga,'
Only a hut with a grass roof and
A weave wicket will adopt me
As its owner and true host
With my ancient lute, a volume
Of Liao Zhai's magic stories, and
A piece of straw mat to be scrolled
And inscrolled as I please.

This way I'd be able to forgive and forget
All the bustling days of my life
In the mundane world of the bygone times.