My house is at the foot of the green cliff,
My garden, a jumble of weeds I no longer bother
New vines dangle in twisted strands
Over old rocks rising steep and high.
Monkeys make off with the Mountain fruits,
The white Heron crams his bill with fish
from the pond,
While I, with a book or two of the Immortals,
Read under the trees–mumble, mumble.