Drunk, I rise and brandish my sword,
Ashamed to roam with braggarts bold.
Elegant in verse and wine, I find joy,
As if in company of immortals old.
The spirit of poetry flows ever true,
Nature's secret designs work in the dark.
If a perfect tune finds its kindred note,
It's a treasure rare, missed by ages stark.
Du Fu longed for the land east of the river,
Hongya bowed to Fuqiu, his peer.
Natural grace stands out on its own,
Far beyond mere literary veneer.
Alas, in all things I am slow and dull,
Yet my heart lingers long on chanting lines.
I shame at my verse, humble as duckweed,
Lest it disgrace lords of noble designs.
Late I met Lord Qinghe, by chance,
Who plucks orchids deep in woods serene.
I, a young learner, gained much from his grace,
A hundred gifts, not one returned, I mean.
We met, clapped hands in mutual delight,
Staggering, I dared to lift my head.
Though my drumbeat weakens with second strike,
At least I'm spared the three‑cup dread.
We scholars serve through learning's path,
To replace our kin in field and grain.
Yet many aim for heights afar,
Toss the brush, dream of titles to gain.
The general who marched south before,
Drove foes beyond the frontier trench.
Books and rites were not without aid,
But rank and reward saw no retrench.
Still he could deflect the guest's mockery,
And joyfully sing of Duckweed Isle.
Three schemes rose with Shang Yang's craft,
One word made Ma Zhou's fortune smile.
If there truly is a way to rise,
What land lacks a sheltering dome?
How could the music of Shao and Huo
Turn to the folk songs of Ba and Yu's home?