Living water should be cooked
With living fire.
I go to the rock where once I fished,
Myself drawing up the limpidity of the pool.
I keep a gourd vessel in the store;
The moon is kept in a jar.
I slice the water with a ladle;
The river is kept in a jug.
The snowy milk has risen
From the bottom, where it was boiled;
Suddenly the wind is heard
Pouring through the pine forest.
It is hard to prevent my withered tongue
From drinking three full cups.
Sitting idly, I listen to the watches
Beating in the deserted town.