I refine autumn mists in my alchemist stove
And heat pure snow in my tea boiler.
Blossoms fall and waters swirl by my thatch hut,
Like the spring breeze in places long lost.
Call a woodcutter, tip the gourd and drink the dregs of cloud-pale grog.
Lean against a screen, I'm a saint drunk on dew on a pure bed of cold stone.
Hanging on a vine
A wild gibbon talks to the moon, bright through my pale papered window.
This old one awakens from his sleep.