Though you fled the Capital for the woods,
Your name came back -- fragrance from the hills.
I used to dream of being your disciple;
Then the news: You're gone, your door is shut.
Only sad birdcries in the empty moonlight outside your hut.
Who will compose the epitaph for your grave?
Reverend friends, do not grieve. Look round this temple:
In rivers and mountains, his face still shines.