In my youth,
I listened to the rain in the singing houses,
under dim candle lights
in a big luxurious bed.
In my middle ages,
I listened to the rain
in a sojourner’s boat,
on the big river,
under heavy clouds,
as the geese made their forlorn calls
in the west wind.
Today, I listen to the rain
in the monks’ quarters.
My hair spotted with white.
In all these meetings and partings,
are there still any remaining feelings?
Rain keeps falling on my front steps.
Pittering, pattering all night,
until the day breaks.
Translated by Kenneth Leong from the work of Chiang Zhe