I've walked to the mountain ridge's end,
And joyfully enter my homeland's gate.
I recall yesterday's journey through the rain,
The biting cold and hardships were not few.
Since boarding the grain transport ship,
Going in and out, the dog-hole felt wide.
When waters rose, no shore was in sight to moor;
When waters fell, shoals gathered, shallow and bare.
I waited for wind and water to turn favorable,
Then rowed the oar, leaving the river's bend.
Lizards and serpents, creatures small and mean,
Rely on dragons to work their wicked schemes.
The boatmen finished their earnest prayers,
And in a moment passed a thousand hills.
If anything fell slightly out of place,
Winds and waves would rise right where we sat.
To flee would mean being trapped and held,
Like Wu Kuai, stubborn and hard to sway.
Doubts like a fox treading on thin ice,
Advance or retreat, a ram caught in the fence.
Only Huang Yisou I found,
With whom to speak of enduring cold.
Discussing writings to pass the long day,
Singing long songs deep into the night.
Word came that the White Waters had risen,
Blocking the river route far and wide.
My longing to return grew stronger still,
I turned my head, bidding the bends farewell.
With yearning I think of Tao Jingjie,
Who refused to serve in any office.
And I, like a rat in the great granary,
Gnawing away, find no peace at all.
The sedan chair trudges through muddy paths,
The servants fret over peril and toil.
The plan to join a ship has gone awry,
So once again, the road is hard to tread.
I regret not seeing the signs sooner,
But when joy is spent, I know to turn back.
If tomorrow brings a safe arrival,
Why would I need wings to take flight?
My young children vie to wait at the door,
My wife rolls up the curtain to look.
True joy is not yet at its end,
Under the thatched eaves, we gather round.
Reflecting on thousands of years past,
Through a narrow tube, I glimpse but a spot.
I'll sort out the scattered texts a bit,
Mend and patch them to make them fair.
To befriend scholars under heaven,
Broad learning, restraint, and diligent polish.
Idle talk is bitter and tasteless,
Empty-handed, I blush with deep shame.
What connects us to the divine?
The ultimate truth—am I so stingy?
Suppose there were a land without fathers,
Then one could not interfere.
I only fear my will is not firm,
So I carve this poem into my heart and liver.