Following official post to the sea's remote corner, twice I've seen the crescent moon appear.
Thinking of old friends from my native hills, scattered like wind and rain, far and near.
Head bowed, I turn the pages of account books; cramped feet follow in others' steps, year by year.
How absurd those past studies now seem—a thousand stones press upon a single thread, I fear.
Who can tell the clear from the turbid in Wei and Jing? Bitter and sweet herbs intermix here.
A fool completes his official duties; morning meal sometimes passes noon, unclear.
Lingering for a mere five pecks of grain, not yet bowed by triple fate, I persevere.
Gains inevitably come with losses; without flaws, what need for mending, ever?
Before the gate, flowing water and carriages, six reins depart as if woven together.
Suddenly I meet Ruan Ji's fork in the road—how can this narrow path be chosen, however?
The boastful cling to power unto death; such death is coarse, truly clever.
Between heaven and earth in this life, who is guest and who is host? Never.
If the croaking of frogs suits one's mood, better than two bands of drums, ever.
On snail's horns, strife arises; war rages like red and white plumes, sever.
Ceasing schemes, I toil alone; content with solitude, I wander forever.
Noise and silence do not conspire; I laugh at those who follow Deng Yu, never.
Action and retreat each have their time; leaning on the tower, I recall Du Fu's endeavor.
Well aware of my bookish obsession, I refuse to learn the money-grubber's lever.
A long rope to bind the Chanyu, a foot of paper to summon the Tibetan ruler—clever.
Throughout history, lofty-hearted men pass like swarms of mosquitoes, gone forever.
Again I face the green hills, where beyond the sky, arched brows allure.
Leisurely, I drink alone; drunken words spare the young goat, pure.
This is the turn of autumn into winter; cold tasks urge sealing the door.
Crickets and cicadas chirp at night; frost blankets plants, vast and obscure.
Whence comes this new poem? It makes the world seem narrow, for sure.
With a sudden, transcendent grace, it sheds dust and soil, immaculate and pure.
Sea wind enters my study curtain; my chant harmonizes with gulls and crows, demure.
Night's radiance startlingly lights the room, as if pearls returned to shore, secure.
Brushing the inkstone, I stain it with pine-soot ink, drawing water from the cold well, obscure.
Harsh words need not be deleted; meaning serene, rhythm ancient, endure.
Rising, I see the Dipper slanting; clearly hung on elm and oak, demure.