Since I came to dwell up on Cold Mountain
how many ten thousands of years have gone by . . .
Accepting chance and change, I hid away by a
spring in a grove;
perched there, just watching, I was satisfied.
Not many come, out among these cliffs,
but white clouds sometimes touch, and pass . . .
Soft grass to lie down on,
blue sky for covers.
Pillowed on a rock. Happy, alive.
I’ll let Heaven and Earth take care of the changes.