Nothing to report
My hut lies in the middle of a dense forest;
Every year the green ivy grows longer.
No news of the affairs of men,
Only the occasional song of a woodcutter.
The sun shines and I mend my robe;
When the moon comes out I read poems.
I have nothing to report, my friends.
If you want to find the meaning,
Stop chasing after so many things.
Back-blip six of seven.