Moon tonight, and everyone’s moon-gazing,
but I’m alone, and in love with this tower.
Threads of cloud are shattered in the stream:
trailing willow is the picture of late fall.
As it brightens, you can see a thousand peaks.
Far off, the veins of ridges flow.
Mountain passes. . .
will I ever climb again?
I stand alone,
and let the border sadness rise.
translated by J.P. Seaton