From the North Tower my westward gaze
is filled with clear sky,
Massed waters and linked mountains
lovelier than a painting.
A swift current over the rapids,
its sounds like an arrow's,
The waning moon over the fort—
form of bent bow
I've bid farewell to Pan Creek's elder,
his fishing line still dangling,
But my mind is still on the old frontiersman
who lived within the Way.
Should you ask me of these borderlands,
what else there is out here—
Ever and now the nomad flutes
sing bitterness without end.