“I shuffled through red dust for a decade,
but often dreamed of verdant mountains.
The purple cord of court seals doesn't rival peaceful sleep.
Grand gates of red don't compare to having less.
Swordsmen protecting a sickly lord,
the song of raucous drunkards: how disgusting.
I'm toting my old books back to my hermitage,
back to flowers and birdsong and familiar spring."