From between hewn peaks, a far-off moon
emerges at the edge of my brushwood gate.

Ten thousand trees sharing its clear skies
as shadows blur toward the heart of night,

its radiance offers emptiness white images
and its ch'i invests wind with ice-cold dew.

The valley's silent. Autumn streams echo.
Deep among cliffwalls, scraps of azure haze

linger. Crystal pure, it enters isolate dream,
opening shadows, embracing empty peaks,

then I wake at my ch'in window confused:
pine creek at dawn, not a thought anywhere.