Human endeavor's gone in a single morning
and a recluse's three paths vanish in weeds.
First I hear you're resting at the Chang River,
now you're among T'ai Mountain's wandering
dead. There's a pond here still tinged with ink,
but autumn's tumbled out of mountain clouds,
no hidden boats to find. You understood, hid
all beneath heaven inside all beneath heaven.
By Meng Hao-jan, translated by David Hinton.
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