Lying on my pillow, I am startled to see
a new year come in again.
From my bed I hear the sounds of hooves and wheels
in the street.
My cup holds no thick wine—I am too ill to drink it.
My house is surrounded by green mountains—do not think
that I am poor!
Toward evening, the clouds seem to play with their colors;
plums and willows, in their element, vie in spring beauty.
My door is closed, but I enjoy this rich seclusion:
too lazy to follow those who travel
east, west, north, south.