/ Cobblestone Path to the Mountain
How many times have I walked this cobblestone path up the mountain,
laned by green vegetables and high spruces.
Ancient fences, entwined by dried luffa vines from last year,
like the most authentic simplicity in the world.
Few fellow villagers are busy in the tofu shop,
their buttons glittering in the damp space.
Under the red brick wall of the herbal medicine warehouse, an old warden
sits on a wicker chair, looking like verses chiseled for a long time.
A child on the cobblestone path calls for mother.
A dog shakes its faithful tail.
By the iron gate of the courtyard stands a woman with red frosty cheeks —
the kind and unique redness that only Chinese women have.
Treetops, gravestones, quiet.
Mountain grasses have withered, bordering the blue sky…
When will I lay down my pen
and attain the secret tranquility just like them?
O so many times I’ve walked this cobblestone path up the mountain,
and still my eyes are looking for virtues.
On the mountaintop, when will I be able to look at the world like the setting sun,
when will misfortune finally turn me into chimney smoke above the roofs…
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