At forty, I thought I knew what was what, and moved to the mountains,
picked up prime farmland short of a hectare riddled with clouds.
Spring is the time to sow, the soil bustling, with people plotting life and death —
the fate of a fennel seed is in a flick of my hand.
The baby chestnut tree was brought home from the market,
then the soft rain, beseeched by me, came like a sigh at night.
Hundreds of flowers teeming, leaving me behind, useless even if putting on rouge.
The mountain felt like a middle-aged woman blessed with child.
Nature went about its business day and night: the ways of the birds and the bees
all enter the beekeeper’s account, like frost on the roof.
My romantic ambitions faded by the end of summer,
some irrational and uncalled-for schemes.
The mountain accommodates every one under the gaze of the stars,
even a small snake, whom I stumbled across in the ravine,
and a myriad of plants and trees named by men, regardless.
Time flows by in the mountains, absent of memories, undisturbed by the past.
Besides those resting in graves, myself wandering about,
those recessing at the potato patch, and the secretive behind the bamboo groves,
there was hardly a soul around. I began to get used to how trees think
and how wild grasses grow, and tread lightly lest to startle the turtledoves.
As to the land, apart from praise, any other words is cheap talk.
Winter is for chopping wood and lighting fires, but to act like a thinker
is absurd. Compared to trees, mountains, and rocks,
my composition is overly complicated: family name, age, acquired skills,
origin unknown, and whereto is anyone’s guess.
The full moon only shines on top of our Eastern Mountain.
The full moon only rests on the trees on Eastern Mountain,
brightening the graves, and brightening up the ashen eaves of a few houses,
a weary scene from the never-ending years, a wordless lament.
– Bai Ma, On Top of Eastern Mountain (translated by Duck Yard Lyricists)
