The old fisherman spends his night beneath the western cliffs.
At dawn, he boils Hsiang’s waters, burns bamboo of Ch’u.
When the mist’s burned off, and the sun’s come out, he’s gone.
The slap of oars, the mountain waters green.
Turn and look, at heaven’s edge, he’s moving with the flow.
Above the clıffs, the aimless clouds go too.

translated by J.P. Seaton