I sweep the dust from ancient lines and read.
Wait for the moon. Take strings and play.
By Peach Blossom Spring no word of Han,
By Pines whose titles date from Ch’in.
The valley’s empty. Who comes home?
Blue evening hills grow cold.
How fine your refuge is,
Looking out to those White Clouds.xsxxx
Alone on the road to the border,
Beyond the soil won from the Hun.
I’m blown like thistle-seed out of Han.
Wild geese fly off to barren lands.
Out of the Gobi a puff of smoke.
In the long river a swollen sun.
Our patrol is on the High Pass.
Our camp is on Mount Yenjan.
Back to Wang Wei