Long winds blow through the valley, daylight dims,
The wilds are sparse of people, clouds gloom and dark.
Foxes howl and dance, jackals wail,
A sick tiger, tail drooped, walks through the wormwood.
Sky cold, springs frozen, the mountain's bones high,
Skin withered, thighs itchy, frosty claws scratch.
In flurries, clear snow flakes off its fur,
Head hung low, ears flat, body reeks of foulness.
A flock of caws, jagged, clamor on an ancient tree,
Will-o'-the-wisps half blue, new ghosts weep.
A passing deer before it, it cannot chase,
Eyes glare fiercely as it crouches, still and stiff.
A wind of fur, a rain of blood, heaven and earth solemn,
When will it leap again, to see it feast on flesh?
Heaven creates all things, each has its prime,
That year, one roar, heaven aided its might.
Sitting watching clouds rise, walking leading its cubs,
On the road, who would speak of an old bear?
One day, grown old, it guards its rocky den,
Fallen leaves fill the mountain, ice and snow after.
Bold heart remains, but sinews and strength weary,
Lonely, long hungry, it sleeps through white day.
Since ancient times, many heroes have sunk low,
Not all who are not rats are like this man.
Fan Ju, ribs broken, entered Qin in the west,
The Neishi sighed long, Tian Jia raged in wrath.
Pitiful, all beasts fled before it,
Turning to look, it's not even like a pig in a pen.
A man striving forward is also like this,
Would he again vainly lean on a cliff to die?
Have you not seen the South Mountain's white forehead once repaid kindness,
The golden pillow thrown over the wall—to whom?