The dojo rests on Yunzhong Mountain, nestled among halls and open fields.
Beneath the ginkgo tree in quiet hours, I gaze at the distant dust and drifting clouds.
I till the soil, the sound of springs echoing in the air,
Forge swords by the fire's glow, sustained by the land and the whims of fate.
The passing of winters is but a distant thought.
When turmoil calls, I descend the mountain to witness the joys and sorrows of the world.
Injustice stirs within, though I reveal it not.
At my waist, a gourd brimming with wine, behind me, a sword's cold gleam.
Not for fame, nor wealth,
But to live freely, as a spirit unbound.
