桂浆

In summer's heat, I lie at noon, my throat parched and dry,

How to dispel this vexing thirst, to what can I apply?

The laurel's bark, a pungent spice, is cut from rocky steep,

And honey from the stone, a sweet and gentle treat.

Boiled in a cauldron's fiery blaze, it bubbles and it seethes,

Then sealed in icy well's deep chill, where hidden coolness breathes.

After three days, from depths unveiled, the vessel's seal is torn,

A bright, translucent amber stream, like liquid jade, is born.

Ice and fire, like water and flame, their natures are opposed,

Yet here they blend, as grain and malt, in harmony composed.

Both pungent and sweet tastes are met, a balanced, dual grace,

No need for drunkenness to soothe, my worries find their place.

In middle age, I suffer from an inner, burning heat,

Each year I long for autumn's wind, the west wind's cool retreat.

But cold and chill offend my frame, a thing I must beware,

To vent this heat, I turn to you, your counsel I declare.

Often I serve this drink to guests, in cups I raise on high,

Three rounds I offer, yet they sip, no full return reply.

I think of Qu Yuan's words, exiled by riverside,

To drink the dregs would bring me shame, my honor I must guide.

With Dipper's ladle, I scoop this brew, a draught to leave the world,

To wander far, a brief escape, my restless soul unfurled.

Yet fear I'll lose my destined path, my journey's course obscure,

My servant grieves the road is long, the way is hard and poor.

Returning south of Huai, alas, a chill grips heart and mind,

A hundred jars could not farewell this longing, undefined.

My early wish was for the woods, the hills I held so dear,

Not for the laurel's branch to cling, nor for promotion here.