Northward thirteen years, a foolish, idle, lonely soul.
Reining my horse toward Tianshan, I mutter, pacing in vain.
In deepest gloom of June, white snow flies over the yurt.
A chilling air pierces the marrow, a bitter wind cuts the skin.
Hungry, I eat dates and chestnuts; thirsty, I drink kumiss and butter.
Cast it aside, speak no more—to speak would be pedantic.
The year before last, I traveled north of the river, brambles choked the ruined mounds.
Night lodged on an ancient battlefield, ghosts wailing mournfully.
Last year, reaching Huainan, yellow dust veiled my traveling robe.
The long river drifted with white bones, all sights were perilous paths.
This year I return to lakes and hills, tall trees embrace my old home.
Before the hall, my two aged parents, radiant, their faces plump and bright.
On the wall, is there not a lute? By the bed, are there not books?
Friends come visiting daily, for play and for delight.
Opening the window to the clear daylight, plum blossoms surround the courtyard.
Calling my son to slice the sea whale, newly brewed wine fills the pot.
By chance, I've returned alive; facing this, it truly seems a dream.
All affairs are but a painted cake; a lifetime spent stroking the beard.
In the past, I erred by wearing a scholar's cap; now, I have no grand plans.
I only wish the royal armies would rest, and strive to add vegetables to my rice.