In barren hills, the sun's warmth stirs life's breath,
All things contend with seasons, defying death.
My lonely post is wild, with grass and trees so dense,
Where red and purple blooms in riotous dispense.
Deep flowers, dark leaves, bask in the morning light,
Warm sun invites a chorus of birds in flight.
Their speech I cannot grasp, what meaning lies therein?
I only love the melody, sweet and thin.
South window: stars are many, spring at its best,
The hundred-tongued bird hastens dawn, yet unaddressed.
The oriole's hue is lovely to behold,
Its chirping like a tender infant bold.
In bamboo groves, green shoots in silence grow,
Deep hidden, only songs their presence show.
Fields round the walls with white water overflow,
The hoopoe's call urges the spring plough to go.
Who says the turtledove is clumsy, without use?
Each mate knows well if rain will come or truce.
Rain patters, mud is slick, a slippery scene,
Deep grass and mossy green, no soul is seen.
Alone, the wine-bib bird upon the flower,
Urges me to drink before its fleeting hour.
A hundred other kinds each chatter loud,
Strange lands, strange customs, names unknown, a crowd.
I, slandered, find myself in this exile's place,
And hate the artful tongues that brought disgrace.
Spring comes to mountain town, a bitter, lonely spell,
Holding my cup, I mourn no beauty's knell.
Flowers bloom, birds sing, and I am drunk with cheer,
Drunk, I make friends with blossoms and birds here.
Flowers smile at me with a charming grace,
Birds urge me drink—it's not a heartless case.
At leisure, with fine wine, I cherish the view,
Fearful lest birds depart and flowers bid adieu.
How laughable Qu Yuan by Chu's marsh, alone,
In "Li Sao," haggard, sober, making moan.