汴河

The stone canal slants, linking to the Kun River,

The river distant, the canal narrow, almost crossable.

Wild torrents once swelled, rising ten fathoms high,

Rushing eastward swift as the Three Gorges' flow.

Crashing down to meet the Huai and Si,

Its clear stream also mingles with the Yi and Luo.

Spanning the sky, nine arches—a true hanging rainbow,

Angrily rolling a thousand ships like withered leaves.

Fit only to watch its surge from level ground,

Why risk boarding a boat upon such peril?

Together, like geese and cranes walking in the sky,

Echoing from afar the calls within the valley.

But fear one slip of hand or heart,

And mighty ship, tall mast, both break and fall.

Yet I, advancing or retreating, long resigned to fate,

Wade through, gazing forth, never daunted.

Wife and children, too, are used to rivers and lakes,

Chatting and laughing as if sailing mountain streams.

Twanging bows, beating clappers to scare night thieves,

Digging roots, catching shrimp to supplement morning meals.

Sometimes climbing steep paths among elms and willows,

Or facing barren slopes to watch ducks and teals.

Born in the southeast, my heart leans toward the wild,

Splashing in clear streams, gazing at rush and reed.

Pillowing on flowing water, rinsing stones—truly my ease,

Yet treading mud, facing danger—never quite content.

Gradually I rejoice, the golden palace gates draw near,

Why worry about lack of rice and salt in pot and stove?

Just like a seafarer drifting on a withered raft,

Winding round the bright river, gazing toward the heavenly gates.