You have lived a long time
at Pa-hsing Temple;
retired, you’re preparing
only now to leave.

On the verge of parting, we look
out upon the bright water of autumn;
you’re not returning to your hometown
nor to the countryside near it.

You will hang your Buddhist staff in a tree
where the sky reaches to a watery horizon;
where the door-leaf of your hut
opens on great mountains.

Below, you will see dawn
a thousand li away;
a miniature sun
born of a cold white sea.

translated by Mike O’Connor

Rising early
to begin the journey;
not a sound
from the chickens next door.

Beneath the lamp,
I part from the innkeeper;
on the road, my skinny horse
moves through the dark.

Slipping on stones
newly frosted,
threading through woods,
we scare up birds roosting.

After a bell tolls
far in the mountains,
the colors of daybreak
gradually clear.

translated by Mike O’Connor

At first light, you ride
swiftly over the village bridge;

Plum blossoms fall
on the stream and unmelted snow.

With the days short and the weather cold,
it’s sad to see a guest depart;

The Ch’u Mountains are boundless,
and the road, remote.

translated by Mike O’Connor