On the wild path, winter snow still lies in spring's embrace,
I first came here alone, with young Xu, to this place.
The city high, trees old, birds and beasts roam free,
Their calls grating, feathers ruffled in the cold's decree.
Crumbling walls and ruined houses still stand tall,
Allowing distant views from the leaning terrace's sprawl.
Only a few dozen willows, tall and grand,
Line the road, facing each other, planted by whose hand?
Gradually we clear the brambles, discern grass and tree,
Finding peach and plum by the wall's bend, a pleasant sight to see.
Joyfully we plan to seize the season's tide,
With hoe and axe, from morn till night, to labor and to guide.
The New Year's winds and skies grow fairer day by day,
Looking up, I see wild geese returning on their way.
The old roots and frozen veins refuse to sprout anew,
Around them we circle a hundred times, with nothing to construe.
Their stubborn, wild forms vex the Creator's art,
The god of spring refuses to breathe warmth and start.
Drunk with wine, I almost pound the great drum's sound,
To startle dormant dragons, drive spring thunder around.
By chance, absent for only a few days' span,
Their colors changed—by whom urged on, this sudden plan?
Emerald buds and red specks burst along the bough,
Slender stems and tender calyxes as if cut just now.
Even reclining stumps and burnt roots forcefully awake,
The old and decayed don't shy from blooms that mockery make.
The mountain apricots bloom first, a dazzling sight,
The rest, red and white, each flaunts its own delight.
First bloom, full flourish, and the fall—each stage,
Holds meaning that tugs at the heart, page by page.
Do not let all flowers blossom in one breath,
But let one fall, then another bloom, defying death.
To see spring through requires ten thousand jars of wine,
With you, my friend, let's drain three thousand cups, so fine.