Awake in painted hall, silver garlic weights hold the curtain, pearl drapes like low clouds touch the ground.
Rain just ceased, washing out a sapphire sky, now the nurturing warmth perfect for flowers.
A sudden warm breeze revives fragrant grass, radiant light shimmers, wrinkling the silvery pond.
Apricot cheeks smoothed with cream, pistils embroidering, the garden arrays red and green in rivalry.
See fledgling swallows snatch butterflies past lush boughs.
Suddenly a thread of incense smoke chases a drifting gossamer.
Long day, idle soul, standing alone in slanting sun, evening's mood arrives.
So, riding the whim, I'll take these beauties along.
Deep into the heart of blossoms we go.
Plucking the barbarian lute's speech, light strums, slow twists, all deft and clever.
Watch tight-bound silken skirts, urgent beats on sandalwood clappers, Rainbow Skirt breaks into flight, startling swans arise.
Frowning moons at brows, drunken sunset clouds across cheeks, songs soar and swirl to the clouds' edge.
Let crimson rain of blossoms fall and fly, covering our heads.
Gradually, at Magpie Tower's west, the jade toad moon sinks low.
Still we linger, our joy not fully spent.
Behold, from ancient times to now, all is vast drifting—floating official posts in the mortal world.
These hundred years, how many days? Just thirty-six thousand, that's all.
The road to Land of Drunk is steady,不妨 travel it, but in life, one must simply follow the heart's ease.