Old Cai, a man of noble ancient ways,
Throughout his life, in purity he stays.
His heart, so clear, deceives not in the light,
It rivals sun and moon in shining bright.
At twenty, skilled with brush in verse he played,
And taught disciples, wisdom he conveyed.
At forty, left the world of fame and strife,
Returned to his thatched gate, a quiet life.
His eldest son pursues profit and gain,
Ensuring ample food, with little pain.
The second studies verse and classic lore,
With songs and lute sounds echoing at the door.
Though dwelling in the town, his home's confined,
He lives as if in forests, peace of mind.
Old friends in halls of power, rich and grand,
For ten long years, he sets not foot on land.
The harvests may be good or may be lean,
But he has no field left for him to glean.
The neighborhood is full of gossip vain,
Yet to such talk, he turns a deaf ear plain.
His humble cottage, just one acre small,
Seems vast as if it holds the world in thrall.
With books and wine jugs, his companions true,
All other things he holds of little view.
When drunk at night, a lumpy pillow's rest,
At dawn, wild herbs for hunger are the best.
He knows not whether fate is poor or fair,
Nor which emotion truly should he bear.
The nine-symbol robe, majestic and fine,
Brings warmth, but not a sense of pride divine.
The eight-flavored feast, a rare and costly treat,
Once sated, holds no glory, incomplete.
His wife and children now with hair turned white,
His grandson starts to walk, a budding light.
In joy they share a hundred years, content,
How can the world's troubles their peace prevent?
Alas, I've drifted, somewhat lost my way,
Late do I yearn for virtue's tranquil sway.
How can I be like him, my elder friend,
And spend my remaining years in peace, no end?