I recall the sweltering heat of yesterday,
When thin clothes still felt too much to wear.
Now autumn's breath brings a cooling air,
Fit for drinking wine or reading, I'd say.
The wine jars are soon drained, and before long,
It's hard to fetch fine dishes or fruit in time.
I wish to sort my moth-eaten books along,
But the rusty lock won't open, a tedious climb.
My sturdy stomach loathes being overfed,
While my sickly bones crave idleness and rest.
Hunger and thirst are both forgotten, instead,
Why care if I'm standing or sitting, at best?
Before the steps, the pond is full to the brim,
A pavilion narrow as a little boat.
A listless old angler, weary and grim,
Sees his reflection, ashamed of his robe and coat.
Fish bear through dense duckweed as they glide,
Frogs climb slanting lotus leaves, then slide.
Crickets chirp with a mournful, clinking sound,
Grasshoppers leap, a delicate rustle around.
Each creature takes a form, spirit within,
How numerous the species, how they begin!
Their vital breath moves not of their own will,
All are broadcast by the Great Skill, silent and still.
In low, damp marshes, filth and mire,
Tiny beings are conceived in the muck.
Proclaimed as kings facing south, in attire,
Could they ever ponder their luck?
Alone, I think of us, the horizontal-eyed race,
Our knowing nature differs from moth and snail.
What is meant by "equal in a carefree space"?
Why not inquire further into hardship's tale?
Market measures soar, prices wildly fly,
Travelers' lodgings lack comfort, a sorry state.
The door bolt respects the fleeing fence, a sigh,
The shore pavilion holds Du Fu's rudder, fate.
In Heaven's court, ten thousand dances play,
Who pities the people's suffering below?
I should push the celestial gate, have my say,
A guest replies, "It's futile, don't you know?"
A pedant gathers a hundred worries in store,
Why not worry for yourself, and nothing more?