Since youth, a wanderer I've been,
From Jade Rong's well to Pot Mountain's scene.
Chanting poems needs no toil from me,
Banished four thousand miles to Zangke, you see.
Master Liu, not yet fifty years old,
At Luo Pond served as prefect, bold.
The Hanlin lost its literary grace,
Dragons resent the muddy, lowly place.
Now I, at forty, poor and without a post,
Drift through the world to Rongshui, coast to coast.
Coming, I lodged three nights at Liucheng village,
Bowed again to ancient worthies, my pilgrimage.
Talent low, why complain or sigh?
Let me tell of my westward journey's start, nigh.
Rushing about was never my heart's desire,
Every step recalls my homeland's fire.
From Jiangxi, Hunan, to Guilin I've passed,
Green hills vie to offer beauty to my eyes, vast.
Green hills, however fine, stir no delight,
My bosom holds ten thousand pecks of sorrow's blight.
Long nights are just right for dreams,
Why must the traveler rise at early gleams?
Eyes closed, I see my native place,
Eyes open, I know my luggage's space.
Friends part without regret or pain,
Kin always feel close, a constant gain.
At dawn we climb the road together,
By dusk we share a lodging, whatever.
First watch: spring wine is fully brewed,
On the street, my eldest brother I viewed.
Second watch: in mulberry-hemp garden's sphere,
My second brother talks livelihood, clear.
Third and fourth watch: folks from daily rounds,
See me back early, call with joyful sounds.
Fifth watch: the thatched inn feels the cold,
A neighbor's rooster stirs my ear, bold.
Startled, I find myself on bamboo bed asleep,
Where beyond the sky is Seven Min? I weep,
Tears soaking the cloth coverlet, a sorrow deep.