Groping for Fish
· Hermitage in Mount High Love
I love my cot by the lakeside
So fair and wide,
A vast expanse so vague and clear.
On fine days the far-flung hills warm appear,
With flowers reflected in the mirror of the skies.
The sand beach far away, I seem
To see the rippling water beam,
Under the willow trees a lonely boat lies.
The gulls asleep, not yet awake,
Unseen in my native village by the lake.
The setting sun would bring
Twilight to spring.
Who can anticipate
Even Peach Blossom Land
Will witness dynasties fall or stand?
The pathway in the woods will lead to a long life.
I laugh, for it is not a shortcut to win in strife.
It’s calm when deep is night,
I would play on my flute with loosened hair
And ride my crane to brave the cold wind in my flight.
I would drink dew on high
And waft in the air.
The moon atop the pines sheds its light
Over the conquered land far and nigh.
The poet prefers his hermitage in the southern mountains than officialdom in the northern capital.