Everything before my eyes is worth recording,
Autumn leaves fill the river, mist fills the lake.
Frosty wind weaves fine patterns of crimson brocade tents,
Dew-washed chrysanthemums reveal golden skin.
North and south of the mountains I tread flying paths,
Each step, vine tips tug at the traveler's robe.
Lifting my gown, I fly down to reed-filled shores,
Flocks of gulls and egrets come to entertain.
Fishing fires glow deep beyond the bridge's shore,
Cooking smoke appears and vanishes by streamside huts.
Streams and hills wash away dreams of mandarin ducks,
I no longer recall Qiantang Su with ivory comb.
A hundred years, sun and moon run on twin wheels,
Rise and fall through all ages share the same sigh.
Will a hawk cling to embroidered arm-guard's comfort?
A wild horse won't bear a golden bridle's restraint.
What use are fame, rank, riches, and honor?
They're but Mr. Nothing and Master Vacuous.
I don't aim to wield a pen to praise the temple,
Only wish to strike the soil, singing on broad roads.
When will I tread again the old mountain's foot?
When plantains grow tall and alders plant thick.
Night fields, dewy and lovely, moist with turning dew,
Spring woods, noisy and loud, hear the wine-seller's call.
Fish grow fat, no need to seek bear's paw,
Turbid wine is truly better than finest cream.
A patch of spring rain ripens melons and taros,
Half a stream's autumn water thick with wild rice and reeds.
Even noble gates show pity for young children,
I dare not trouble the elder with long beard.
My life, one full meal is enough,
How could I seek further for rich fat and grease?