The sun it is an arrow. The moon it is a bow
The four seasons bend man down. Oh, it has no end.
But only if it happens that the moon and heavens die,
Will no one know the Nothing of man flowing with the stream
Mountains and rivers in splendor. Blue the vault of sky.
And in the very middle, oh, the exalted lady lies
The gibbons cry, the birds all sigh, the mist is growing dark,
For a thousand and ten thousand years,
wind in the cypress and pines.