Thoughtful elation has no end:
I steer onward towards whatever comes.
My boat and I, before the evening breeze,
Passing flowers, entering the lake,
Turns at nightfall towards the western valley,
Where I watch the south star above the mountain.
A mist rises, hovering soft,
And the low moon slants through the trees.
This moment I choose to distance myself
From every worldly matter and only be:
An old man with a fishing pole.
---Chi Wu-ch’ien
c. 692- c.749
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