Lord Ding brings his poem in his sleeve, a tune fit for the goddess' strings.
I savor it, refreshing as ice, like rinsing my mouth with Xigu's spring.
Dew-kissed flowers hold lingering grace; wind-stirred ripples weave their own designs.
Within it lies the fragrance of Ban and Fu, far surpassing the chill of Jiao and Dao.
Sweating to follow in his dust, I find not a single word is hard.
The bright moon falls beside me; washing my hands, I chant, wild with delight.
Through you, I recall my drifting years, looking back to times long past.
At the gate, we first met but briefly; willows on the bank, cicadas sing at dusk.
Cold and heat, the loom never stops; rushing about, my shoes are nearly worn through.
We meet again at this inn, raising cups beneath the frosty sky, wild geese flying.
A man's spirit soars to the clouds, yet still he seeks the pity of the crowd.
I hear of a scholar's encounter with his lord, set free from all constraints.
He trusts in the Creator's child, endowed with such peculiar favor.
Riding the wind, he sheds the grime of the world; an immortal takes a pill of transcendence.
Plump flesh belongs to lesser steeds; he strides ahead of noble coursers.
I, in my old age, chase petty salaries, a tiny fish hiding in deep abyss.
My hunger's fire finds little relief; my wish to return home has long been firm.
Content to bend like an inchworm, what have I to do with the soaring wind-roc?
Yet I shall see the letter of recommendation, receiving this brocade of cloud-like verse.
From now on, I'll wipe my ailing eyes, riding the long wind on soaring wings.