Returning from a suburb of Zaohejing alone
The bright moon loves me so as to accompany me home
The fields around so quiet look eerily wide
The sky clear of clouds seems empty and brighter
I doubt it’s true or not what the blind man said
How can I depend on the foretelling of the good fate?
On which day can the complacent spring wind
Carry me over myriad miles to the divine capital?
