The ancient vital breath flows to this day,
None but this heart can stand the test, I say.
With sky as canopy and earth as mat,
Drunk, I chant a rustic song, that's that.
Don't you see, fame and posthumous titles men hold dear,
Shine in history's annals, year by year?
Yet names are given by chance, no more, no less,
Who can tell a sage from a fool, I confess?
Don't you see, wealth and rank are what men crave,
From Duke Fen's tripods to Yan's humble fare.
Now all are but a heap of dust, the same,
Who cares what fortune or misfortune came?
Some say power alone can overawe,
A clerk at dawn, a jester by nightfall.
The rich refine their charcoal, the poor in rags,
Rising or falling, life but drifts and sags.
Some say talent alone can move the heart,
Yet writings are but dust, set apart.
Were ancient masters reborn to write anew,
I could not tell the false from the true.
Letters and documents, a plague of old,
Piles of scrolls on the desk, a sight to behold.
Couriers raced on roads in capital's day,
Yet no distant officer saved Liu Yan, they say.
The fickleness of human hearts is known,
Flattery bows, then leaves the aged alone.
A child asleep, bumping the screen in play,
Also babbles flattery, in his way.
To think, one clumsiness beats a hundred skills,
A dwarf with a sack of grain his belly fills.
Just learning to sweep tracks and guard the gate,
He loses plough and hoe, a bitter fate.
To think, three burrows for one body's need,
East to Zhe, south to Min, I proceed.
Ashamed of Feng Fu's laugh when I dismount,
And fearing my own shadow's foolish taunt.
A pot, a spade, sober then drunk again,
Like Liu Ling, in dregs I would remain.
Yi Garden lush, Tang Lake clear and bright,
The old soldier at the feast is no different in sight.
A flower, a willow, spring and autumn pass,
I'd roam east and west like Yang Ning-shi, alas.
Lotus in pond fades, dates turn red near,
The widow's worry for her loom, I hear.
Alas, life's affairs are like threads from a cocoon drawn,
A thousand strands, ten thousand ends, from dusk till dawn.
Homeward I sing a vast and mighty song,
Of Yao and Shun's abdication, Tang and Wu's arms strong.
Sword and pendant have always ground each other,
What are heaven, earth, and all things to me, I wonder?
Tao Yuanming loved wine, ranked first, they say,
But what technique beyond wine in his recluse's day?
Yong and Duan only loved chestnuts and pears,
Without these, would wine make them fools, unawares?
Bai Juyi only saw Mount Lu's strange sight,
Would he believe zither, books, spring, stone couldn't delight wife?
To green hills alone, going late is bitter,
What good is Golden Valley, white-haired together?
I sing vast songs to hills, wine cup in hand,
Watching the moon fall into golden basin, grand.
Coming and going, we toil like Ji Bu,
Wise and vile, need it concern Wang Zun, too?
The vastness in my breast, what I retain,
Stringing pearls, beating time—vain, all vain.
I cannot torment myself for fame, flattering till death,
Nor point to dreams in south window, north, for joy or wrath.
Power and writings share life and demise,
Flattering books, dream talk, mutual praise and lies.
To choose a place for oneself is already a load,
What good to play along on life's random road?
Sublime, vast breath between heaven and earth,
I look down on eternity, of equal worth.
The vast sea seems narrow, a cup and mustard wide,
The Dipper's handle rots, the Milky Way dried.
Singing vast songs, I utter nature's sound,
Wind, moon, pipes, all in one sigh are found.
Those to come, vast, cannot be foretold,
Pointing here,无愧 only my heart can hold.
Green hills, white clouds, wherever I may go,
Singing vast songs, I chant 'Return!' also.