You called me from lakes and hills,
but something made me waver:

good friends and family couldn’t bear
to see me living elsewhere.

My heart recalled the good old days,
my home was a shack in the west.

The trail was overgrown; no one came.
There were a few old homes in ruins.

I repaired my roof with thatch
and prepared my fields for planting.

Fall winds turn this valley cold,
but spring wines remedy my hunger.

My daughter’s not a son-and-heir,
but she provides my comfort.

Through months and years the busy world
grows more and more far distant.

Planting and weaving satisfy my needs.
What more should I require?

As the years of life march by,
all flesh and fame pass on together.