I was born a master of the silk fishing line,
Who once cast his line to angle for a royal domain.
Though schooled in the ways of sage kings Yao and Shun,
I never met a Lord of the West to bear my chariot on.
I take my lute and return to the ancient river shore,
Where wind and moonlight remain as they were before.
The river wind scrapes the bank as if with a blade,
The river moon shines on sleepless men, undismayed.
Sands are flat, waves calm, the river and sky vast;
I trade for wine, catch fish that splash and dart fast.
Sometimes I swallow the moon with my drunken bowl,
Sometimes I ply my drunken oar through the mist's scroll.
Now I sing a song, now I play a flute,
My rustic tunes unknown to those who follow suit.
My song pierces the cold mist and water clear,
My flute notes rise through clouds to the azure sphere.
I set no sail, but let the boat drift free,
To dwell deep in the misty mountains by the sea.
Deep in the misty mountains lies a painted scene,
I'll add myself as companion to that dream.
I ply no oar, but let the current flow,
Into the glassy reflection where it goes.
Within that glassy reflection, pearls and jade spout,
Thousands upon thousands—who can gather them out?
When weary, I sleep; when drunk, I dance with glee,
A fisherman's home is a divine sanctuary.
Asleep, I dream like Zhuangzi's butterfly in flight,
Dancing, gulls and kites make music of ancient rite.
I raise my voice to sing this "Return to Fishing" tune,
Over the silent river, mist hangs like a gloom.
Clouds hide ten thousand valleys where dark waters end,
The wind blows a lone moon, heaven's heart to bend.
Oh, father of Green Mountains, father of the green,
Walk with me, singing, to the southern ferry scene.
A painted bridge, flowing water, brushed by clear mist's hue,
The setting sun, evening clouds, gather the leftover dew.
Water joins the sky, the sky like water spread,
Who can match the living made by my straw-cloak thread?
Maple leaves frost-tossed, with perch sashimi's delight,
Willow catkins snow-fly, with pufferfish so bright.
I will not emulate Jiang Taigong, old and gray,
Who waited a century for his lord to come his way.
I must meet a true sovereign while still young and keen,
To restore our Xia's unified rule, as it has been.
Nor will I follow Yan Ziling's reclusive creed,
Who spurned the Cloud Terrace and its honors' need.
In restoration times, be but a fishing friend,
With strategies for millions, yet no troops to send.
My net is not like the Han's, so loose and wide,
That even a boat-swallowing fish could slip outside.
When will it be as tight as a loom's pivot, spun,
To leave not even the finest thread undone?
My hook is not like Lü's, so straight and stark,
Save for King Wen, who else could see its mark?
Better to bend it fierce, a sharp curve to make,
And haul in stars and moon as my prize to take.
Fish glue chills teeth, break reeds to pick it out;
Crab pincers prick fingers, cook them in the pot, no doubt.
Dragon stew in cauldron does not please the taste,
Whale cut and roasted merely fills the belly's waste.