Three Thousand Streams, Three Thousand Souls

Three thousand streams, three thousand souls; eight hundred clouds at rest, with no one to return A stroke startles wild geese, bamboo shadows sway; mournful cries dance at the heart of the pool The dying sun flies west, borne off by a thousand clouds; in the long night, a foolish monk's bell tolls I would take on the snow and let it whiten my hair, but alas, birds carry away the rosy sunset