An empty boat glides on without oars,
Returning to the infinite.
At the year's start, I gae here and there,
And before I know it, it is already midyear.
Under the southern window, nothing withers,
And the forest is beautiful and luxuriant.
Seasonal rains pour down from the sacred source,
And the color of the dawn is attuned to the warm wind.
We who have come must go;
Man definitely has an end.
While we live each day, waiting for the end
And bending our backs in the fields,
We surely cannot injure the inner self!
Though we meet with change, transformation, danger,
I am neither despondent nor exultant.
If in daily affairs we hold our spirits high,
Then what is the need to seek the sacred mountain tops?