Weary, I yearn for the forest and hills;
Against my will, ten years have I spent
In the world of people.
Burning incense, I take leave of the assembly,
Shunning worldly affairs, I depart.
The mist invites me and
I know that it is time to rest.
Those of little talent are not
Guests fond of mountains.
Men of little virtue do not
Make companions for gathering leaves.
Should someone ask, “When will you come back?”
I would reply, “The white clouds and the green water
Are boundless and serene.”