By the river, a traveler wanders at dusk,
Still no sight of Jingzhou from hilltop.
Southwest of Xian Pavilion, the road winds much,
Oak forests deep, rocks sharp and jagged.
Watching red rice cooked, white fish boiled,
At night, lodging at an inn till rooster crows.
In the south third month, mosquitoes breed,
At dusk, no human voices heard.
Raw gauze curtains thin as mist,
Biting through clothes to skin, buzzing by ears.
Before dawn, not waiting for lamplight,
Hailing an official boat across Man River.
A girl hosts guests in a new thatched hut,
Opens door, sweeps ground amid paulownia flowers.
Dog sounds muffled in cold stream mist,
Households burn bamboo, plant mountain fields.
Ba clouds threatening rain, stones steamed hot,
Elk cross the river, insects leave burrows.
Where a great snake passed, the whole mountain reeks,
Wild oxen startled, leaping, twin horns broken.
Diagonally parting Han River, spanning a thousand peaks,
Mountains green, waters emerald, Jingmen Pass.
Ahead asking the way to Changsha,
Once where Qu Yuan drowned himself.
Whose family's red funeral banner comes south?
Meeting exiles heading off from here.
Moon bright, mountain birds mostly roost not,
Flying from lower to higher branches, crying.
The host, thinking of far places, heart displeased,
In silk robe lying facing Zhang Terrace evening.
Red candles crossed, each returns alone,
Sobering from wine, still a stranger in a strange land.
In prime years滞留尚思家
How much more with white hair at world's edge.