The moon says, 'Not so! How could you know the ancient affairs of the heavens?'
I tell you, when has the moon ever had a bowstring?
Alas, it's only the view from the worldly well.
Cease these reckless claims.
The calendar-makers' tales are but idle fantasies.
Who says the waning spirit dies as the bright one rises?
Again, brightness dies, the spirit is born, in the cycle of dark and dawn,
An old rabbit goes about its merry business.
Falsely they pass down: the moon borrows the sun's leftover light.
Alas, for ages, who knew it was ever whole, never lacking?
'A jade axe shaped it, a silver toad fled'— such words are wild and absurd.
Ah!
The world is already sorrowful enough.
Hearing your song yet again brings a smile to my face.
How could the cassia spirit ever die? Its cold light has not diminished a whit.
It merely faces the sun, like two mirrors opposing,
Mountains, rivers, earth—no doubt they are alike.
Wait until after the full moon to observe.
The ice wheel gradually tilts, turning askew to a mere sliver.
In essence, this is no different from the Mid-Autumn moon.
I fear Qu Yuan, in his 'Heavenly Questions,' did not know this truth.
And what's the use of washing it again in the Pool of Xianchi?
A single point of heroic spirit within heaven and earth.
How could it grow old in the human realm?
Flying up to the sky, stroking the moon as I depart,
Only then do I believe in clear skies, no rain.
How many rounds and wanes does a human life hold?
Let us linger awhile, and get drunk together, you and I.