Drunk, I fly in dream to the divine realm,
At midnight, a high tower borrows water's gleam.
Looking down, the cold stream congeals to crystal,
Children call each other to wash their hat strings.
Upstairs, celestial beings with jeweled pendants,
Auspicious hues and heavenly scents fill beams and pillars.
Walking on clouds, a song speaks to spring orioles,
A thousand mountains washed clean, mist and fog stretch wide.
Sobered, I walk past bamboo shade outside the curtain,
Night wind adds more life to the plantain leaves.
My sorrowful heart turns to the exiled immortal,
This dreamland relies on your pointing to be complete.
Once the rear hall opens, flowers and willows abound,
Fragrant flesh may match ten thousand six-petal snowflakes.
Walking in jade and lotus steps, not taking lightly,
Cold eyes—how could they follow orders further?
Spring-onion fingers tilt the jade pot to pour,
Pearl-red drops thick and silent.
A drunk among flowers—how easily arranged?
Returned for ten days, an inch of heart still tangled.
The Orchid Pavilion's style resembles the capital,
For me, again, it sends forth a floral city.
Willow waists follow the wind on a thousand-mile march,
Content, no longer counting the journey back.
Sitting, I make the iron-hearted Song Guangping,
At night wipe drunken eyes to admire plum blossoms.
Singing in Yan, dancing in Zhao—art more refined,
Stopping clouds, whirling snow—beyond critique.
In the mortal world, no more counting of E and Ying,
A god's playful act startles mortal eyes.
In my life, I care not for ten thousand measures' glory,
With flowers and wine, it's Penglai and Yingzhou.
A grand gathering needs not all four companions,
Even barefoot can write lofty feelings.
Most I hate Su Gong, those worldly high ministers,
Their family fame often topples in barbarian lands.
In the array of romance, yet they cease warfare,
Wine cups just borrowed from neighboring maidens to hold.
When will the high hall's bells and drums resound?
Like my heart drunk, like spring intoxication.