In the autumn of Renxu, Su Shi roamed the night, his boat lightly drifting by the Red Cliff.
Watching the water's gleam, vast and merging with distant sky, the moon rose above the eastern hills.
With his guest, in pure joy they tapped the gunwale, singing, hearts open, wine flowing in rapturous ease.
As if feathered, ascending immortal, riding the wind alone, aloof and nobly detached from the world.
The guest played his flute, its melody drifting far, long and clear.
A plaintive longing stirred the hidden dragons to dance, moving all to desolate sorrow.
Heroes of old, Mengde and Zhou Yu.
Their ancient traces can yet be imagined.
Ah! Water and moon—
The passing is like this, yet when did they ever truly depart?
Change occurs in a blink; waxing and waning—they neither fade nor grow.
Viewed from constancy, things and self are boundless; why grieve over transient sights?
Between heaven and earth, each thing has its master,
Yet we share alike the pure delight of wind and moon.
Consider the beauty of rivers and hills—how can it be measured?
My friend and I, in joy, wander freely, hearts elated.
Listen to the river isles: woodcutters' songs, fishermen's chants.
Companions to fish and shrimp, friends to deer, raising gourd cups in mutual toast; life is but a laugh,
A mayfly's dream; let's set the small boat adrift, wild and free.
Playfully setting Master Su's prose to a new tune, I try to capture his lofty spirit, amusing my leisure and vast solitude.