In my youth, my spirit was as mighty as wind and thunder.
Once my words found no accord, I turned my head and gazed back, yearning.
I vowed to grow old amidst mist and rosy clouds, tilling leisure in vast fields, my horn knocked.
One day, vexed by official banners, I knocked on heaven's gate, venting my rashness.
I likened myself to a lone leaf of a boat, on sandy streams where spring ripples sway.
If all rivers eastward flow, how could my strength hold them at bay?
Yet, thanks to heaven and earth's breadth, I'm not yet banished to lofty mountains' array.
Leaving my palm-thatched hut to cold solitude, I became what the world esteems in its way.
My old wife draws chess on paper, barefoot she buys village brew.
Drunk, I dance in colored robes; my path feels quite content and true.
Talents arrive in succession, undaunted by poetry's demanding view.
Responding in song stirs a pure breeze, washing away misty rain's gloomy hue.
An old friend turned immortal crane; under the vast dome, we share sorrow's residue.
Returning alive, righteousness soars higher; with packed rice, from afar, sustenance they strew.
At Yanshan, I see the Evening Star; my drunken eyes dare not look up, it's true.
Then I vow to ride whales and roam, heedless of Flying Swallow's slanderous cue.
Coming last to the Orchid Pavilion, virtue and age are equally prized in view.
Though grieving for the times with fervent heart, discussing affairs, especially bold and new.
With wine cups beneath the seven peaks, free thoughts soar to the ninth heaven's blue.
All things can bring delight; only the song of moth-eyebrows is overdue.