Do you know what it's like?— human life everywhere?
It must be like a wild goose flying, then treading slush of melting snow;
By chance in the slush it will leave the marks of its claws,
Then it flies off—how can we tell whether eastward or westward?
The old monk has died; a new pagoda is made;
On his cell's fallen walls we've no way to see poems written there long ago,
But do you still remember the rocky roads we traveled then to meet him?—
How the journey was long and we were worn out and my lame donkey brayed?
Translated by Stephen Owen, Traditional Chinese Poetry and Poetics:
Omen of the World, 1985, p. 131.
Here's the Chinese original: