As the years go by, give me but peace, 
Freedom from ten thousand matters. 
I ask myself and always answer: 
What can be better than coming home? 
A wind from the pine-trees blows my sash, 
And my lute is bright with the mountain moon. 
You ask me about good and evil fortune?.... 
Hark, on the lake there's a fisherman singing! 

Added: May 20 2005 | Viewed: 504 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Wang Wei
Poem: Answering Vice-Prefect Zhang

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