The woods, the mountain, silent,
facing the cold sunlight;
the ground half carpeted with wild moss —
our horses, waiting.
Somewhere, a temple bell sounds dinnertime;
our minds are transported.
The songs and flutes
that were played here in the past
have completely disappeared.
Mists from the quiet pond chill our robes.
Faint fragrance of spray
from a hidden waterfall
perfumes our wine...
Everyone tells us that feasting here
is prohibited now —
that will not stop us — modern Shan Chien's! —
from returning drunk tonight.