I stride along the western mountain's bend, where reeds and rushes rustle in the wind.
On the shaded cliffs, the snow lies deep; all day, no carriage track is seen to keep.
The sound of rapids falls beneath the eaves, writing out the sorrow of a thousand years.
In broken ruins, lamplight flickers low; a mournful moon inspires the ghosts to sing.
On jagged peaks, the grieving apes lament; short bamboos drive the cattle homeward sent.
Stubborn clouds enshroud the distant peaks; retreating waters carve new lands and creeks.
The toad-like rocks in heaps of fists appear; dragon-shaped shadows lie on pines austere.
I think of my frail, sickly frame with dread, fearing to join the demons of the dead.
If I had fields beside the city wall, would I endure the shame of poverty at all?
Once my resolve was hard enough to slice through rhino hide; now it's pliant, bending like a thread.
Moreover, this is a remote and humble place—could it be where talented men find grace?
The mountain temple bell sends off the night; o'er watery lands, the flute sounds autumn's plight.
Morning mist assails my thinning hair; alone, I lean on the rail in sunset's glare.
My eyes grow cold watching wild geese in azure skies; small leaves drift by the shore where a tiny boat lies.
The fisherman goes hunting for his prey; his meager catch is but some tiny fish, they say.
The hunter brings a tiger back with pride, yet staring close, it's just an aging beast that died.
These times despise a pair of honest eyes; the eastern neighbor treats me like a foe that spies.
Changsha, a low and damp, unwholesome state; Luoyang, where youthful scholars used to wait.
Li Bai was banished to Yelang's far night; Han Yu demoted to Chaozhou's plight.
Great talent finds no use in common days; if not dead, one in long confinement stays.
Though official posts may differ in their rank, our will and spirit share a common flank.
If I were not a banished guest by fate, would I still bear the exile's heavy weight?
An ancient elder from the fields appears, to counsel this poor scholar in his fears.
Why not draw near to Chang'an, seat of might? Distant lands stretch on in endless night.
I turn to answer this old man of yore; two streams of tears I cannot hold back more.
Since ancient times, the sons of Chang'an town, their gallant spirit soared to cloud's renown.
At nineteen, fair as gourds, their skin so white, in perilous caps and light robes, bold and bright.
Servants support their jeweled belts with care; a throng of steeds, both piebald and bay, stand there.
They drink their fill in mansions rich and grand, drunk, leave behind their sable cloaks so grand.
And fear their silver flasks might tilt and fall, directing how to build a wine-dregs wall.
Leaving the pavilion, they ask the flower boy, 'How does one grow the wheat, what is the joy?'
They no longer wish to learn from Confucius' way; when will they dream of Duke of Zhou, I say?
Apricot saddles gleam on golden tortoise bright; powdered leaves boast of silver hooks in light.
In urgent times, they guard a single pass; at night, they'd flee Mount Di, a cowardly mass.
To sweep the dust from Jade Gate clean and clear, and make the Yellow River's waters sheer.
Like those who walk the path with some design, they seem to hold a stratagem so fine.
They chew on fragrant thoroughwax and sweet, but weeds and brambles choke and make retreat.
The night-shining pearl finds a patron first; in broad daylight, no hidden gift is versed.
With ample wealth, one's wishes are fulfilled; who cares to divine if duke or marquis willed?
Returning home, they scatter gold from their store, to sate their thirst for springs and rocks once more.