A Lotus Barge
O sir priests, rowing back
In your barge in the evening late!
Pray, of which lotus flowers have you more,
The red or the white?
A barge shoots down the stream!
The shrine on whose wall the night before
I scribbled a poem by the light of the moon,
Swiftly disappears.
In essay I touched with my young lips
The dewdrops on the lotus flowers.
How cool they were!
As to good and evil,
Ask those behind me on the bank.
I, for one, ride and play
On a hurricane.
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