Since
youth, the crowd’s pace did not suit me;
my first
instinct was always to love the hills and mountains.
Mistakenly,
I fell into the dusty net,
and was
trapped for thirty years.
A caged
bird misses the old forest,
a fish in
a pond misses the old waters.
I’ll till
the wasteland on the edge of the southern wilderness,
stay
rustic, and return to my garden farm.
There are
some ten acres around my house,
eight or
nine other thatched rooms.
Elms and
willows shade my back eaves,
peach and
plum trees line the front.
I hardly
see anyone; they’re so far away
I only
know faint village smoke.
Dogs bark
in deep lanes,
Roosters crow
from the tops of mulberry trees.
No dust
swirls into my door or house;
the empty
rooms promise quiet leisure.
For too
long, I was shut in a cage.
I only
hope that my wishes won’t be thwarted.
Tao
Yuanming