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On the moss more silent than solitude I meet with sorrow and talk to him in the language of the shadows.

I'm stroking the columns of the Blue Twilight Pavilion and listening to the voices faded away such a long time ago.

The affable Moon Of Old China is looking at itself in the feverish green eyes of my pond, little cosmic steam of brahman is filling the well verses.

In the face of the ancient Chan Shan poet night breath pulled the strings of time, waves shattering on the emerald cliffs of eternity.

The surface of the wine frows with a thousand of wrinkles, little fans the sun is written in, as the first drops drown in the dust.

A goblet of golden dew gladdens the soul and lest the gagging of wild geese resound in fresh colours.

New cobwebs of Chinese ink conjured on for the next master of Chan Shan.