I met the poet sage by the Yi River's side,
In blue gown and white steed, across the stream he'd ride.
The shoals' eight-fold echoes through the stone tower ring,
His lofty words in our midst outshine the clear autumn's sting.
A hundred cups he'd drink, no pause, no word of rest,
Drunk with wine, his thoughts soared, his speech more robust and blessed.
The Henan minister hailed him as wise and grand,
With Mei and Zou in his train, daily they'd cross the land.
I was youngest then, my vigor at its peak,
We exchanged gifts like bright pearls and jade, unique.
When poems were done, Xishen would hum with nasal tone,
While Shilu sheathed his tongue, as if a spear to disown.
Thirty years have passed in the blink of an eye,
Nineteen, I count, have returned to the hills to lie, leaving me with a hundred sorrows, awry.
Late I ascended the jade steps to serve by the pearl streamers' sway,
The poet sage, with pickled salt, in the Imperial College pined away.
Parting and meeting seemed without cause or design,
This reunion was heaven's luck, not any human line.
My beard is white, my teeth feel loose at the root,
You, younger than I, yet in looks did not follow suit.
Joy can be forced, leisure oft stolen in stealth,
Unaware, years have lingered, amassing their wealth.
His essays, once penned, stirred the nine regions deep,
Yet the pot held no steamed rice past noon, no harvest to reap.
Good times are easily lost, if not gathered in haste,
The chest holds tiles and gravel, leaving gems displaced.
Recommending worthies, turning stones, was ever blamed in lore,
This duty was his office, not my shame to deplore.
Fate is hard to know, reason not to implore,
His radiant fame now shrouds the obscure evermore.
Swiftly the plain banner returns on a single boat,
Seeing you off, my tears flow like a ditch's mote.