Back I go, ah! Back I go! Where shall my life yet wander?
Three garden paths at my old home still remain,
But peach and plum trees now no longer form a lane.
The terraces and towers, desolate, cause no more woe;
The steps and courtyards, lonely, see few men remain.
Why drift and float, not turning back?
To toil and strive, for what, in vain?
A man of worth should not overestimate his might;
To live in this world, how can one not feel sad plight?
Reflect on a single day being thus,
Awake to a hundred years already gone amiss.
Fan Shan once starved for Tang Fu's sake,
Shouyang once starved for Yi and Qi's name.
What is fame that weighs the world? Not worth a comparison.
What is profit that weighs the world? Not worth a marveling gaze.
Awake to the lure of fame and gain, not dim;
Know poverty and lowliness, yet do not grieve.
Back I go, ah! Back I go!
Though Chang'an is fair, do not linger and rove.
Pack up the kerchief and screen, my baggage light,
Brush off the dust from my cane of goosefoot's might.
The cuckoo knows my mind,
Calling bitterly, time after time.
The place for joy in my old home,
Is now all overgrown with moss and loam.
Back I go, ah! Back I go! To the summit of Min's hill.
Strange peaks and lovely streams,
Can make one forget the years, it seems.
Waters stretch vast and white,
Mountains thrust forth, vying in height.
Peach and plum trees of yesteryear,
Still form rows, as they did appear.
The stone path winds, with vines and creepers towering high;
The thatched hut secluded, with pines and chrysanthemums vying in beauty nigh.
Three hundred dishes on the tray,
Food enough from two qing of fields, I'd say.
Chant and sing,
Joyful and in Zen being.
Full, I play;
Sleepy, I lay.
Heart at ease,
Belly in peace.
This is the place for joy in my old home,
Who knows this joy, so leisurely and free to roam?
East wind rises, ah! A hundred grasses lush and green,
Green willows' flying catkins, apricot blossoms fresh and sheen.
Butterfly wings in disarray,
Birds' voices clamorous and gay.
Green as if painted with dark hue,
Red as if about to burn through.
Back to the old home, the place for joy,
A hidden bird's cry, the cuckoo's ploy.
Fallen flowers, red and purple, grass becomes a mat,
Yellow plums grow fat, willows thrice in slumber sat.
Cicadas chirp incessant,
Butterflies dance pleasant.
Bamboo shoots shed sheaths, turn,
Lotus leaves like coins adhere.
Back to the old home, the place for joy,
Several gusts of south wind enter Shun's strings, aploy.
West wind arrives, ah! Wild geese come in flight,
All things bleak, scenery guessed in plight.
Insects' sounds sharp,
Apes' wails mournful and harp.
Phoenix trees decay,
Chrysanthemums bloom today.
Back to the old home, the place for joy,
Clear breeze and bright moon well employ.
Frosty wind biting, snowflakes fly,
Villages deserted, apes cry at night nearby.
Spring wine is cool,
Stream fish are fat and full.
Burn beast-shaped charcoal,
Stir the squatting owl's mark.
Back to the old home, the place for joy,
Beyond bamboo, two or three plum branches coy.
Red sun three poles high, the fisherman departs,
Clouds迷 four wilds, the shepherd boy returns to his parts.
Morn and eve's feelings, how have they ceased?
The four seasons' scenes already thus released.
Ceased, ah! Whereto?
I know, back I go, ah!
Pines and chrysanthemums await at the gate, South Mountain stands charming;
Flowers and birds joyfully welcome, North Ridge echoes with clamoring.
Regret knowing wrongs too late,
Joyful to complete this ode and return to my fate.