The setting sun about to sink west of Xian Mountain, wearing my hat backwards, lost beneath the flowers.
Xiangyang children all clap their hands, blocking the street, vying to sing 'White Copper Di'.
A bystander asks what they're laughing at—they're killing themselves laughing at the mountain old man, drunk as mud.
Cormorant ladle, parrot cup, a hundred years is thirty-six thousand days, each day I must drain three hundred cups.
Gazing afar, the Han River is duck-head green, just like freshly fermented grape wine.
If this river could turn into spring wine, I'd pile up the yeast and build a lees-hill terrace.
A thousand-gold steed traded for a young concubine, laughing, I sit on the carved saddle singing 'Falling Plum Blossoms'.
By the carriage's side hangs a pot of wine, phoenix sheng and dragon pipes urge me on as I travel.
Sighing over the yellow dog in Xianyang market—how does that compare to tipping a golden wine jar under the moon?
Have you not seen? Jin dynasty's Lord Yang, a single stone tablet, its turtle head worn away, grown with moss.
I cannot shed tears for it, nor can my heart grieve for it.
Clear breeze, bright moon—not a coin needed to buy them. The jade mountain falls by itself, no one pushes it.
Shuzhou ladle, Lishi tripod, Li Bai will live and die with you.
Where now is the King of Xiang's clouds and rain? Only the river flows east, gibbons cry at night.