The bell in the mountain temple rings;
the day has turned to dusk
And noisily people jostle to cross
the ford by Fishermen’s Bridge.
Some people go to their riverside villages
following sandy tracks;
I am going home as well,
on a boat to Deer Gate Mountain.
On Deer Gate Mountain the moon is shining
on trees that part the mist –
I’ve suddenly reached the secluded spot
where the duke Pang once lived.
The path through the pines from the cliff-face gate
is long and quite deserted;
There’s only one person coming and going –
and that is this recluse.