The brocade ch’in has fifty strings: there’s no reason for it,
each string and bridge conjuring up another bloom of youth:

in a morning dream, Chuang Tzu’s confused with a butterfly,
and Emperor Wang’s death left his spring passion to a nightjar

scattered blood: moonlight on vast seas–it’s a pearl’s tear:
far off, Indigo Mountain jade smokes in warm sun: up close,

smoke vanishes: can this feeling linger even in a memory:
never anything but this moment already bewildered and lost.

translated by David Hinton

yet one more translation of one of his best known poems