In my youth, I listened to the rain in the singing houses, under dim candle lights in a big luxurious bed. In my middle ages, I listened to the rain in a sojournerβs boat, on the big river, under heavy clouds, as the geese made their forlorn calls in the west wind. Today, I listen to the rain in the monksβ quarters. My hair spotted with white. In all these meetings and partings, are there still any remaining feelings? Rain keeps falling on my front steps. Pittering, pattering all night, until the day breaks.
Translated by Kenneth Leong from the work of Chiang Zhe