A tap of running water mimics “Baotu”,
Waves churn on the spring’s surface, holding fast.
The scorching sun dries up all, leaving sweat pouring,
Seeking a cool, shady spot to rest.
Mistakenly climb a pavilion, spot ancient remains,
Withered, charred wood—barely enough to catch fire.
Rain pours down from the sky, hitting my face,
Unwittingly, I’ve stepped right through a broken pipe.