1

The river Ching flows rapidly:
where can the wanderer's thoughts find rest?
White bones by the newly built fort;
green mountains, how many rings around?
Tall tower — sails pass in rain;
single pagoda — troops of clouds return.
At sunset, a sad flute starts to play;
cold crows flock on flock fly off.

2

Fading, sick, again I hear of war;
sad, afraid, past things empty now.
This remnant village, beyond the autumn waters:
new ghosts in the brilliance of moonlight.
Trees rise from a fog of thousand sails;
the river bends through wind where one flute plays.
Who uses tears for years accumulated
in this high spot to mourn a road run out?