I intended to be a fisherman,
My heart yearning for freedom and ease.
Burdened by hunger and cold,
I could not indulge in leisure.
Last year in the twelfth month,
I dwelt by the Zha Stream.
Ill, yet celebrating harvest,
Offering chicken and pork as tribute.
The towering Bian Mountain snow,
Bitterly cold, unbearable to face.
My thin bones felt doubly chilled,
Thick silks and waddings in vain.
When clear, the blue mist reveals,
A thousand‑ren gap, missing its full measure.
Lying, I fear the jade splendor fades,
Often pushing the pillow to gaze.
Though bodily systems are strained,
I still feel the spirit reigns.
Forcing the brush to write a poem,
Rough words sketch strange scenes.
The Governor Zheng of Wuxing,
His literary rhythm quite pure and bold.
Like phoenix tails and whale teeth,
Scattered in varied songs.
A sealed letter sent to the city,
Brusque, beyond comparison.
The chilly lotus‑picking boat,
Tossed by towering waves.
Just as I poured Master Xie’s wine,
Suddenly came Zhuangzi’s loss.
Silently cut off from news,
Facing the wind, only melancholy.
Spring passed till late autumn,
Naturally beset by slight ailment.
Year‑end, not attending personally,
How to avoid deception?
Now I come to watch the reaping,
Right by the Song River.
Outside the gate, two tides pass,
Rippling light sways and shines.
All because of newly built dwelling,
Everything is still rough.
If in later years there is harvest,
Then my modest wishes may be fulfilled.
Sky high, the air is crisp,
Wilderness vast, the mind expands.
Moved by things, sorrow stirs,
Angered by times, often indignant.
All my life I loved writing,
Even in old age, how dare I forget?
A steed’s bones pull salt carts,
Dark texts end up covering sauce jars.
Alas, now many are slanderous tongues,
Seeing good, they only obscure and defame.
I ponder greatly for defense,
Containment and tolerance as broad measure.
Beyond the boxes of books,
All in sight is surplus length.
A hungry slave is still better than nothing,
Thin fields are what the family relies on.
Slightly free from hunger and cold,
Studying the ancients truly strengthens.
The sage’s way may be cultivated,
Though worldly paths are stumbling.
Recently heard the emperor’s decree,
Again allowing private brewing.
Urgently pounding materials for wine,
Calling my child to prepare pots and bowls.
Long nights wrapped in a poet’s robe,
Late days opening the book‑curtain.
I get drunk, you may return,
Joyful as Yuanming of old.