Last year I plucked my white temples,
In the mirror I could still see a youth.
This year I plucked my white hair,
Eyes dim, hands trembling.
Filled the cup with strong wine to feign vigor,
The vigor not rising, I laughed at myself.
In youth I read the books of ancients,
Hoping to cultivate myself, how could there be surplus?
Though I own a tile in Chang'an,
No time to settle for a full year.
The year before, I served in Chengdu prefecture,
Monthly salary sixty-five strings.
Wife and children, flesh and bone, worry about coming,
Can I return via the perilous plank roads?
Chang'an in June, dust fills the sky,
Ponds boil, forests about to burn.
The whole family wails, seeing me off at the gate,
Alone I drive a horse over mountain peaks.
Arriving at my post, I just promoted sincerity,
All day cautious, fortunate without blame.
The Prime Minister, knowing pity, for my prudence,
Suddenly petitioned for me to wear the city governor's seal.
The governor's salary doubled,
Moreover, the official emolument piled high like frost.
Mountain wife and young daughters all welcomed,
Often setting out green cups for drunken songs.
Drunk, I then collapse before the cup,
Wind and moon fill my head, threads of hair pure white.
Though this reduces the worries of the whole household,
It adds five years of aging away from homeland.
Five years old,
What can be done?
Days to come are few,
Days gone are many.
Golden hammer smashes the golden tweezers,
And again sing before the cup the song of growing old.