English Rendering
The best tea is boiled over a fresh fire
With water fetched from a running stream.
To the end of the fishing points on rocks
I try to source clear water from the deep.
The dipper stole the moon into my urn,
A stream share to the kettle the scoop feeds.
Soon it boils to a cream top of snowy foam,
Tea grounds rolling up an aroma rich and sweet.
Then I pour a thin stream of spring to my bowl,-
A soothing sound like breeze down the pineries.
The ‘three-bowl limit’ cannot be My cup of tea
for the long night at this town, barren and bleak.
