$MOVR $NOM $JASMY
On the north of Qing Shan and beyond that outer gate,
white waters wind around the eastern city.
Here we part—alone, a wandering plant of thistle-like down,
going ten thousand miles on a journey.
Clouds drift—so the traveler’s thoughts wander;
the setting sun—so the feeling for old friends.
Raising my hand as I leave this place,
there is only a thin, desolate cry of horses and neighing.
On the north of Qing Shan and beyond that outer gate,
white waters wind around the eastern city.
Here we part—alone, a wandering plant of thistle-like down,
going ten thousand miles on a journey.
Clouds drift—so the traveler’s thoughts wander;
the setting sun—so the feeling for old friends.
Raising my hand as I leave this place,
there is only a thin, desolate cry of horses and neighing.
