Autumn Feelings in Central Qin Sent to a Distant Monk

Autumn Feelings in Central Qin Sent to a Distant Monk

I long to retire to a single hill,

yet the three paths are hard to maintain.

The northern lands are not my desire;

I think of my teacher in the Eastern Grove.

Gold burns away like cinnamon—spent,

and year by year my proud resolve declines.

At evening the cool winds arrive;

hearing the cicadas only deepens my grief.