My home is placed beneath the greenish cliffs;
My weed-covered yard I don’t cut anymore.
Fresh rattan hangs down in curling up;
Ancient boulders erect upright to the sunlight peaks.
Mountain fruits the monkeys pick;
Fish in the pond—the egrets hold in their bills.
With my immortal books—just a couple of scrolls,
I sit beneath a tree and read, mumbling and muttering.
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Ron