Your residence on earth, a floating, nothing but a dream;
you wake, and your empty lodging
has returned unto the Void.
The stove for herbs, the alchemical furnace
are covered now with dust;
the feathered wand, the patterned carriage,
lost in darkest mist.
White walls glimmer still with moonlight
in this autumn home;
green pines continue breathing wind
through the nighttime windows.
The Taoist saints are transcendent in their view of life:
no need to grieve and sadly mourn
the uprooted tumbleweed.