Since entering the holy gates,

Forgetting the original color of life,

Tempered by a thousand times,

Physically and mentally exhausted in the torment of the years,

I have never found a trace of kindness and sincerity,

Far away from the bustling city of life,

In the sullen melancholy, unrestrained for fate.

In front of the temple I looked up to the sky and smiled,

Ignoring the sacredness and pride of Qingyu,

Shocking the years with my heart,

In the simplicity of my "madness",

Hope is thus dim.

Before the temple I wrote hard,

Write the true traces of the history of tears,

In sincerity I am "sorrowful",

The future is open to the imagination as a result.

O Bodhi Tree! Spiegel!

All hope becomes sorrow here,

The gates of the temple will never be opened,

Dream back to the longed-for paradise,

I hope that the years can ignite the fire in my heart.

Chapter 058 of "Ma Ping'an Poems": Vernacular poems The sorrow in my heart is being hit by my hand, please wait a while,

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