how pitiful, the feelings of the world
still, the hills are not afraid
with forests of trees to clothe them
the hunting ground of poems and verse

my heart is free as the white clouds
body light as a crimson leaf
apes and birds pull me forward
lusty as ever, we rise up–cross over

translated by James H. Sanford

I climb these hills as if walking on air
body too light to fall
bamboo staff resting against a great stone
torn cloak snapping in the wind

a lone bird soars the azure depths
far distant springs reflected in its eye
carefree, singing a timeless song
gone–on a journey without end

translated by James H. Sanford