Vol. III
Whistling Canyon
Hills are empty, white birds fly revolving
Below the crystal curtain willows rustle
The moon stoops to the ripples of the green maple
The wind drowns the sound of my zither
The radiant oreole overstays its welcome in the branches of the willow
Glittering beams scatter over the mountains casting a net over my skin
I shiver, when my hair is wet in the scented night mist
Many boats go out, but yours wonder in the reflection of clouds