The window empty: two thickets of bamboo.
The house tranquil: a single fragrant stove.
Beyond the gate, it’s red dust everywhere,
and in the city, that white sun hurries on,
but I don’t chase after immortality masters,
don’t long for the arts of everlasting life.
I have my own secret for stretching it out:
when the mind’s idle, months and years last.
Trans. David Hinton
The Selected Poems of Po Chü-i