A mountain dweller—his mind is calm and quiet;
His only care is about the chain of months move fast.
He works hard picking funguses and herbs of eternity;
Can all those searching and sorting make him immortal?
His yard cleans up once the clouds start to roll up and rack;
The forest is bright under the perfectly round moon’s disk.
Why does he always postpone his return? The cassia tree
That grows on the moon attaches him to this retirement.
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