Moon, are you too growing old? Let me offer you a cup, and listen to the tale of your life.
I ask you: when did your world begin?
If there is heaven and earth, there must be you.
How many years have passed?
The primeval age is distant, far beyond reach.
I now trace your lineage from the era of Tang and Yu.
Emperor Yao, named Fangxun, ascended in the year Jiachen; counting to now, the Song's Jiāxī reign.
In all, over three thousand five hundred and twenty years.
Alas! Through how many cycles of rain and wind, wax and wane?
The old hare gallops, the foolish toad gulps—surely you must be weary.
Ah!
How could the moon be without sorrow?
I observe human life, its span of a hundred years.
Those bright, piercing twin pupils, clear and pure, none surpass an infant's.
But just upon reaching middle age, vision grows dim and blurred,
How much worse in old age? What is it like?
Let us reason by this analogy.
My words seem sound, yet I cannot help but doubt myself.
I fear the moon of ancient times differs from the moon of today.
My regret is that people of today do not live a thousand years.
We only see now the icy wheel, washed pure.
Who, since ancient times, has watched from then until the Sui and Tang dynasties?
When were you bright and clear? When were you dim and dark? After all, few clear days, many rains.
In a moment, the moon sets. How deep the night?
I say, sir, ponder this no more—for now, simply be drunk.