The Wind God roars in wrath, thunderous and deep,
Churning turbid waves that tower in a mountainous heap.
For miles on rivers and lakes, no human trace is found,
Whence comes this tiny leaf-like boat, to this watery bound?
Among the reeds and rushes, a fisherman appears,
With straw cloak as his garment, oar as steed he steers.
He makes the misty waters his livelihood and home,
With red yeast salted fish, in lotus leaves a savory dome.
Boatmen vie to buy, regardless of the price,
I too will buy some to accompany my cup of rice.
Cooked and served, a faint fishy scent fills the air,
Plated in morsels, its color like reddish earth, laid bare.
If one can find delight within the wine cup's hold,
It's better than singing for favors, a story often told.
Have you not seen how Confucius would not eat fish gone stale,
Yet in Chen and Cai, his face bore hunger's pallid veil?
And have you not seen Han Yu, who wished the whale to feast,
Unaware that at home, cries of hunger had not ceased?
I dwell by rivers, weary of the ocean's fare,
Yet today, fish and shrimp are treasures rare.
Vermilion gates daily spend ten thousand coins with ease,
But that未必 ensures a life of constant peace and please.
You, my friends, may someday serve east or west afar,
How can a simple meal be as it is now, up to par?
Sending pickled fish need not trouble Meng Zong of yore,
But may清白家风 be passed down forevermore.
I shall return to my village, to fowl and swine commune,
No need for fresh-killed game, like Lu Jia's lavish tune.
I only wish for abundant years, fish and rice cheap and rife,
And share with all under heaven a joyful, sated life.