白小

For two years by the seaside I've stayed, my view vast and wide,

Opening my eyes, I see nothing but the boundless tide.

I thought I'd feast on giant whales, a grand and hearty meal,

Yet for my mouth, only tiny whitefish I can feel.

A hundred tails cannot fill up the pot, so scant and slight,

Boiling them is like cooking common herbs, a humble plight.

What gain is there in chewing them, what substance can I find?

Only scales and fins in empty, messy disarray entwined.

Once, like fish at play, upon the sea's surface they'd appear,

A solitary ridge across the waters, far and near.

Gasping, spouting sprays of foam, a white rain they'd bestow,

Scattering in the clear dawn's light, a fleeting, shining show.

In the end, they are not chosen, not recorded with care,

I'm engaged in this minute and trivial affair.

Short and long by contrast are shaped, each defines the other's state,

North and south have no fixed mark, their bounds are left to fate.

Mount Tai is not deemed too much, for its grandeur is known,

The tip of a hair, could it ever be considered too small, alone?

For two months I've read powerful prose, rich in word and might,

Three phrases, when reason is full, can achieve wondrous insight.

A human life is but a bubble's burst, transient and brief,

Who can compose a tune that lasts a thousand years in relief?

How can I squat by Kuaiji, waiting with patient art,

For a year-long fishing line to play its destined part?