Vermilion gates deep, twelve halberds stand in guard;
Tall locusts shade the courtyard with their lovely hue.
Today's governor's mansion rivals Han and Wei in might;
The grand mountain of Lu bears four thousand stones of weight.
For fifty years I've read and written, toiled and strained,
Teeth fallen out, my hair half turned to white.
What, after all, have been the wishes of my life?
Endless documents, just to serve and repay the state.
In my decline, I dream no more of Duke of Zhou;
I hear the Master dwells now in the east.
In old age, barely made a junior minister of justice—
Killing one Zheng Mao, what merit was that, in the least?
If Books and Odes have truly misled one's life,
I recall the double-pupiled hero who lifted the tripod's weight.
How grand it was to carve up rivers and hills!
Commanding heaven and earth as if turning the wind's fate.
Abandoning the Pass, yearning for Chu, more petty still;
A monkey crowned, his road soon reached its end.
Those aged worthies, merely guarding the city walls,
Their heads at dawn brought in, red banners ascend.
The people of Lu have been thus since ancient times,
Still singing with strings in a single acre's space.
For sages and worthies, all things are ruled by fate;
Why should worldly men boast of talent and grace?
The prefect's aides are seasoned clerks, the staff robust;
Seasonal rain soaks the soil, the year's harvest is just.
I dwell deep within, behind closed gates, no more to roam,
Crooking my arm, sweetly sleeping as the sun stands at noon.
I once heard Ji An in Huaiyang was also thus,
Yet he did not resort to crafty words to feign loyalty's tune.