My mother suffered early decline, her hair frost-white, how many teeth remain?
The younger child got her hair, the elder got her teeth.
When I was just forty years old, the right molar on my upper jaw was destroyed.
From then on, the source of white stones, year after year, costs me management.
Soft as if plums turn sour, sparse like pomegranate seeds in a crack.
The root floats, touched easily it wobbles; its strength weak, encountering pressure it crumbles.
I dread hard chestnuts with their pits, but find tender meats quite delicious.
Slow stewing is naturally good, quick swallowing is just a temporary fix.
Pricking the fat is like uprooting villains, picking the fine threads is hard as pulling down a fortress.
Repeated probing lets the wind in repeatedly; one moment of relief, the structure collapses.
Shaking, the swelling runs through my cheekbone; the gnawing pain pierces to the marrow.
Outwardly, like a row of shells, yet inside, it's truly empty like receding gums.
A red dragon stirs the misty vapors, the jade pool swells with clear fluid.
The heavenly drum cannot be struck, the golden cauldron is but licked in vain.
The wet nurse, old and unashamed; the weaver girl, young and pleased with herself.
Graceful charm has long been extinct, how can blood and vigor be relied upon?
In the morning, I grind and treat with pungent salt; at dusk, I rinse with fragrant angelica.
Perhaps it can still support the precarious, not yet to the point of failing utterly.
The grand official's mutton is so rich, the marquis's minced fish even more delicious.
Though there's no complaint of scraping the pot, I cannot avoid the shame of flattering the stove.
Bean curd, soft, yields to the chopsticks; millet porridge, smooth, flows from the spoon.
I do not worry about hunger within, but laugh at being full to death.
The tongue survives because it is soft—this saying I dare not affirm.