Huang Luzhi of Yuzhang, a man both clumsy and madly naive.
In the southern rivers and lakes, he took fishermen and woodcutters as his guides.
With an axe at his waist, he entered the white clouds; pushing his cart, he rowed on clear streams.
Tigers and leopards did not stray from their paths; gulls and birds frolicked together.
Meeting others, he showed no haughty difference; following things, he had no flaw.
He knew not how to love the old and loathe the new, nor regretted being deceived by men.
At dawn he often wandered out; at dusk he also wandered back.
He wandered as an officer in Lord Ye's city, wanderingly comforting the sick and the remnant people.
He did not compile what was not his own affair; he did not rush toward what was not his time.
People called him mad, naive, and clumsy—Luzhi only rejoiced the more.
Some asked to present the Wandering Officer, toasting him with a cup of grape wine.
Wine stirred his timid spirit; rolling up sleeves, he rose to whistle and set rules.
A nobleman holds one office—how could he act with careless simplicity?
Yet how like autumn reeds, trusting the wild wind, they scatter and fall.
Wandering actions may stain virtue; wandering halts may ruin chances.
Wandering silence invites suspicion and slander; wandering speech draws scorn and ridicule.
The Wandering Officer thanks and answers his guest, wishing the guest to ponder deeply.
Wandering steps leave no rutted track; wandering halts have no bridle or bit.
Wandering silence brings few complainers; wandering speech finds few who understand.
I was born after the Wandering Old Man, with no bond to match his height.
Alas, alone like you, thus making eyes serve as eyebrows.
Forcing a smile, not counting the return—the universe is but a vinegar gnat.
Viewing Kunlun as a dung hill, transformed without self-awareness.
Regrets and errors though myriad, the straight path is broad and level.
Searching for the solitary bamboo in old ruts; racing chariots seeking Confucius.
Using a banner to summon the forester—the lowly refuse to play the corpse.
Jade's moisture how can it dry? Sunlight how can it blacken?
These words come from beyond the system, to be glimpsed through formless images.
Allotted nature has its own course—why use the shifts of the times to move?
My wandering is truly hard to change; fully drunk, I dare not decline.