Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Son Mountain 3 [a Cold Mountain Transcreation]

Following the way to Cold Mountain
undertakes a road that never ends—
the chasm is long and filled with boulders and rocks,
the watercourse is wide and veiled with reeds and grasses,
the moss is slick despite the lack of rain,
the pines sigh without any wind.
Who can leap directly from this twisted world
and sit with me among the white clouds?

(from the translations of RP-32, RH-8, GS8, BW-40, JPS-16)


Climb up! Ascend! The way to Han-shan;
But on Han-shan the roads never end.

The valleys are long, with boulders in heaps and piles;
The streams are wide, with grasses both wet and damp.

The moss is slippery—it has nothing to do with the rain;
The pines sigh and moan, but they don't rely on the wind.

Who can transcend the cares of the world,
And sit with me in the white clouds?


Who takes the cold mountain road
takes a road that never ends
the rivers are long and piled with rocks
the streams are wide and choked with grass
it’s not the rain that makes the moss slick
and it’s not the wind that makes the pines moan
who can get past the tangles of the world
and sit with me in the clouds?


I climb the road to Cold Mountain,
The road to Cold Mountain that never ends.
The valleys are long and strewn with stones;
The streams broad and banked with thick grass.
Moss is slippery, though no rain has fallen;
Pines sigh, but it isn't the wind.
Who can break from the snares of the world
And sit with me among the white clouds?


Clambering up the Cold Mountain path,
The Cold Mountain trail goes on and on:
The long gorge choked with scree and boulders,
The wide creek, the mist blurred grass.
The moss is slippery, though there's been no rain
The pine sings, but there's no wind.
Who can leap the world's ties
And sit with me among the white clouds?


Set foot on Han Shan’s Way?
Han Shan’s road is endless . . .
The gorge is long. Rocks, and rocks and rocks,
jut up.
The torrent’s wide, reeds almost hide the far side.
The moss is slippery even without rain.
The pines sing: the wind is real enough.
Who’s ready to leap free of the world’s traces
to come to sit with me among white clouds?

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