The Old Pond, Ah! A Frog Jumps

Seek Not The Paths Of The Ancients; Seek That Which The Ancients Sought.

Calm And Serene The Sound Of A Cicada Penetrates The Rock.

My Body, Now Close To Fifty Years Of Age, Has Become An Old Tree That Bears Bitter Peaches, A Snail Which Has Lost Its Shell, A Bagworm Separated From Its Bag; It Drifts With The Winds And Clouds That Know No Destination. Morning And Night I Have Eaten Traveler's Fare, And Have Held Out For Alms A Pilgrim's Wallet.

Do Not Resemble Me-never Be Like A Musk Melon Cut In Two Identical Halves.

Do Not Seek To Follow In The Footsteps Of The Wise. Seek What They Sought.