Wiping the Dust at the Five-Hundred-Stone Grotto Heaven, Vol. 5

The magpie’s cry sends you off; strange dreams and the same sleep. Heading north to the Citong Quanzhou city, I still return to my home village. The family mountains support layered saddles. The new government orders have not yet been issued, but I still see the old clothes and caps a symbol of the previous Ming/Han civilization. The setting sun alters our gull-like vow; the cold sky shows a single shadow of a wild goose. Meeting again, I burst into laughter, already regarding you as a man of the Han. If friends and family ask about my thatched hut, think of the perfection of Taiwan; it is not a settled matter. Once drowned, there are glowing embers. Abandoning the land was not a strategic choice; I call to Heaven but see only sorrow. If one does not die in a hundred years, the swirling earth will surely rise again. The royal spirit of the Central Plains remains; the hero knows where to return. Tell the village elders to remember the Han Guan Yi Rites of Han Officials. In the old country, only grain and millet remain; the rugged mountains have few ferns or weeds. Crossing the river to discuss talent, we eventually return to the old Wuyi black-clothed, commoners or former gentry. I anticipate your return path; pomegranate blossoms shine in your eyes. The mountain light remains in the old country; the sea air prepares the traveling boat. On the back of the Ao mythical sea turtle, I watch the red sun; the Kun Taiwan body is quiet. The black wind washes the wine cup, and I collect my tears to speak of the East of the Sea. There is another poem in the style of "Ancient Parting":

"I wish you were like the moon in the sky, rising from the sea and returning east. I do not wish you to be like the eastward-flowing water, reaching the sea and never returning. The moon has feelings, the water is heartless; I am darkened and soul-broken, that is all. Especially since a whole family is separated by the Hu and the Yue the furthest reaches of the north and south. A hundred years of leaving the homeland; closing the gates to sever the geese, the river cutting off the carp allusions to broken communications. Ten thousand gold cannot buy a single page of writing. Alas! Sigh! The traveler afar, the spring breeze of the third month warns me to pack my luggage. I cannot keep the sound on the flute; I cannot wipe away the name on the jade."