Classic Poem

Poem on the Wandering Immortal

Kingfishers frolic among the orchid blossoms,
each form and hue lending freshness to the others.
Green creepers twine over the tall grove,
their leafy darkness shadowing the whole hill.
And in the midst, a man of quiet retirement
softly whistles, strokes the clear lute strings,
frees his thoughts to soar beyond the blue,
munches flower stamens, dips from a waterfall.
When Red Pine appears, roaming on high,
this man rides a stork, mounting the purple mists,
his left hand holding Floating Hill's sleeve,
his right hand patting Vast Cliff on the shoulder.
Let me ask those short-lived mayflies,
what could they know of the years of the tortoise and the crane?EnglishKuo P'o