Who is this broken man of great insight?
He is the favourite son of Mother Nature

He is burying himself among grassroots,
And concealing among hills and dales

Reputation has become little in his eyes,
But no bounds to his cherished sights

Though he may speak with his mouth,
He never tells what is in his mind

Though he isn't at variance with the age,
His mind disdains to bind with senility

He is one who may be said to lie hid
At the bed of the stream on the dry vale

Being such a man, he feels ashamed
To listen to the words of voluble tongues

How much more when a lone wanderer
Drops by to enjoy his modest company.