Ma Jung’s flute sings. Helpless, I hold
My tunic open, like Wang Ts’an, looking out
Toward a cold homeland full of sadness.
The sorrowful year blackened over by cloud,

White houses vanish along the water in fog.
Over the maple shoreline, green peaks rise.
It aches. Winter’s malarial fire aches,
And the drizzling rain won’t stop falling.

Ghosts they welcome here with drums bring
No blessings. Crossbows kill nothing but owls.
When my spirits ebb away, I feel relieved.
And when grief comes, I let it come. I drift

Outskirts of life, both sinking and floating,
Occurrence become its perfect ruin of desertion.

translated by David Hinton