Cui Dong

What fills a monk’s day, you ask?

Sweeping floors, lighting incense—such his task.

Clear chimes pierce emerald peaks afar,

Idle clouds drift through bamboo bars.

Body and mind, beyond dust’s trace,

Time stretches long in this still space.

At dusk, the meditation door swings shut—

No one but sunset’s glow, left to mutter.

Long have I roved through cloud-wrapped woods,

Thus grown a man of idle moods.

Clerks mock my governance as vain,

My wife laughs at our purse’s strain.

Li and Guo shine with timely grace,

Wang and Yang join the court’s embrace.

At leisure in the Minister’s hall,

Do you recall our hometown spring—its all?

Where mist-chilled waters stretch their endless sheen,

Fine crops line roads that wind through leagues unseen.

A lone ape wails from some sea-girt shore,

Wild geese rise loud from lake-fed fields once more.

You’ve strolled through Changzhou’s gardens fair,

Recited odes with courtly flair.

Yet now you bear sealed missives south—

I know you’ll steal naps by the stream’s bright mouth.

Through bitter years my books I’ve kept,

Awaiting summons—poverty unwept.

At dusk, through snow my horse still strains,

At supper, yet another host sustains.

When sorrow comes, I read auspicious signs,

As age descends, I prize dawn’s golden lines.

Gazing afar toward Pingjin’s grand gate,

I know at home, spring warms my garden’s state.

From war-torn riverside towns we fled,

Now meeting—joy and shock both spread.

After so many years apart,

I ask of childhood names, my heart

Turns wistful with each cup we drain,

Discussing texts, young scholars pain.

I know your scrolls will brim so bright,

They’ll make Jiangcheng’s paper dear overnight.

A distant mission begins, long prepared—

farewell wine was poured just yesterday.

Your gate lies deep where autumn trees age,

your road emerges with the evening tide.

In Jianli, scholars of renown abound;

the southeast breeds its finest minds.

One day, when duties give you rest,

may you still recall this branch I’ve planted.