Late autumn day.
A sudden drizzle sprinkles the courtyard.
Sparse chrysanthemums by the rail, scattered plane leaves stir the lingering mist.
Desolate.
Gazing toward river passes.
Dark clouds drift across the fading sun.
Like ancient poet Song Yu's sorrow, I climb heights and face the waters.
The long road stretches, wayfarers grieve, weary of the stream's endless murmur.
Cicadas chant in withered leaves, crickets shrill in fading grass, a clamorous chorus.
In lonely inn, days drag like years.
Wind and dew shift, silence deepens toward midnight.
Vast sky clears, Milky Way pales, the moon shines bright and fair.
Endless thoughts.
Through the long night facing this scene, I count past days in secret.
No fame, no rank, I lingered year after year in pleasure quarters.
The capital's splendor, in youth's prime, feasting from dawn till dusk.
With wild friends and eccentric mates, we seized each song, vied in wine, clinging to joy.
Since parting, time flies like a shuttle, old outings seem a dream, endless the misty journey.
Brooding on fame and gain, gaunt and ever entangled.
Chasing past events, my face etched with futile sorrow.
The water-clock moves, a slight chill creeps in.
Gradually, the sobbing horn sounds its final notes.
By the idle window, lamp kept lit till dawn, embracing my shadow, sleepless.