The Creator, in the dark and deep,
Has never shown His face to me.
I know not why I earned His ire,
That I am blamed so frequently.
Or perhaps He pities my dull wit,
And cures with drugs that dizzy me.
I too surmise this hidden heart,
And bear in silence, not to flee.
In between, I garrisoned Shu and Han,
Ten years trapped in postal misery.
Dust from saddles dried on Long's highlands,
War clouds darkened Qin's plain somberly.
Mixed with sand, my ration grains I ate,
And scooped up water, swallowing thrice with glee.
Beacon fires passed east through Luo Valley,
Swift as lightning's fleeting spree.
Returning to Wu, I gained brief rest,
My remaining breath a thread, barely.
I thought, back in my homeland now,
Better than a stranger's county, surely.
But alas, my fate is wildly wrong,
Demonic matters clash in me.
Friend and foe surge in the same wave,
Trampling the level ground wantonly.
My life, so trivial and frail,
Fears daily slander's fiery spree.
Old books I have no time to read,
Rat tracks climb my desk and inkstone, see.
Burdened by illness, not yet dead,
I've become the elders' last devotee.
Yet looking back on all I've passed,
It's like gold refined repeatedly.
Who does not love his own life's frame?
I regret becoming an official's boot-tree.
With a short staff, I enter emerald void,
In a small boat, I cut the river's silvery sheet.
Across the creek, I hear the fishermen's song,
By the woods, I see the spinning firelight's beat.
Though poor to the very bone,
I won't accept a guest's pity, complete.
You see the ape that leaps into the woods—
It differs from the swallow nesting on a curtain, fleet.
Where there are hills, all can be tilled;
Wherever I go, how can I lose my humble seat?