An old temple leans against the green hillside,
The Traveling Palace nestles next to the emerald flow.
Sounds of waters, and the sheen of the mountain locked in the painted tower.
Past memories send my thoughts far away.

Morning rain and clouds return at dusk,
Mist and flowers, in spring as in autumn.
Why should the screeching of the monkeys get so close to the solitary boat?
The traveler has enough sorrows of his own.

translated by Hellmut Wilhelm