Don't tell me I'm proud of my brush and inkstone;
grown old, in a desolate room, I keep the blinds down.
Fish leap, kites fly, that's the way things should be;
plum scent and bamboo color my old acquaintances.
With sake, as with friends, I associate casually,
though with poems, as with mountains, I like things unique.
In life, in such things are found quiet and rest,
making me doubt that in heaven the moon waxes and wanes.