In old age I return, a former jinshi styled,
Now with farmers as comrades, simple and mild.
Tao Qian’s ‘Return’ I dare not hope to match,
But Man Rong’s self‑exemption comes near my patch.
Before my gate, rank‑nets could truly be spread,
Yet I tend garden plots, content, as he said.
‘Forgiveness Studio,’ empty, feels most dear,
Our talks so pure, as if no dust lingered here.
Often you come, we share cups, wine in hand,
When you delay, I gaze, awaiting your stand.
A man untimely trapped in muddy plight,
Who knows the phoenix poised, the crane in height?
We planned to form a poetry club at ease,
Drifting together through our villages.
Suddenly you bid farewell to travel far,
Into Peach Blossom Spring’s deep cave, ajar.
You say ‘Half‑Hermit’ wishes to go along,
Two masters’ grace, a pair, both fair and strong.
Long have you cherished aims to roam all lands,
Through southeast to the border’s distant sands.
Now fame and gain you’ve both forgotten clean,
No striving heart in court or market’s scene.
Only the urge to chant poems stays unspent,
New verses gleam upon my dusty desk, sent.
Their tone so lofty, rhyme so perilous, hard to reply,
Like ‘White Snow, Spring Sun,’ startling vulgar ear nearby.
At sixty, hair not yet tinged with gray,
One joyful trip you take, if you may.
Clan bonds, sworn friends, we never stand on form,
Ride side by side, laugh, talk through calm and storm.
Lake‑sea bold spirit all gathered and stored,
Named ‘Forgiveness Studio,’ near the Master’s word.
In haste you grasp my sleeve, no time to stay,
Wine cup not dry, you’re eager on your way.
To ‘Half‑Hermit’ I send word, words fail to tell,
Only farewell notes fill the paper well.
When you return, responses will fill a chest,
Writing all mountains, rivers, poems as history’s zest.
See you off, then shut my door deep and tight,
Ask not of right or wrong, praise or blame’s blight.
But hope you’ll come back, ascend my hall once more,
West Lake still waits, old He Zhizhang to explore.