Who can say how life should look?
We are like swans that walk on slushy snow,

leaving their muddy footprints,
and when they soar, go off in what direction?

The old monks died, the new pagoda’s built,
ruined walls and old inscriptions vanish.

But why do we still recall the tumult,
long roads, exhausted travelers, crippled braying donkeys?

translated by Jiann I. Lin & David Young