Because I can avoid worldly dreams,
Alone I sport with pure, primal breath.
Fu Xi held a knife to carve the trigrams,
Ancient meaning washed away, not a trace left.
Sleep holds no fortune, no loss or gain,
Even if forced to divine, what could be done?
Thus it alone survives to this day,
Each person has it, yet knows it not, everyone.
Know that sleep's meaning is vast and grand,
Not just boasting of stupor on a bed.
The nobleman labors in mind, with leisure from tasks,
Gaining timely rest, peaceful as Heaven's thread.
The petty man's heart embraces ten thousand risks,
But when he lays on the pillow, all turns even and flat.
If his sleeping mind expands greatly,
What difference from the nobleman, however slight?
In former days I heard of the joy of bending an arm,
Even the supreme sage approved, nothing amiss.
Moreover, in dreams there can be gains,
Have you not seen the Duke of Zhou sighing in decline?
Later generations, confused, know not this joy,
Abandoning the great road, heading for crooked ways.
The Bamboo Grove madmen indulged in drink and forging,
Picking off fleas and lice, leaving no clothes.
Likes and dislikes on paper, vast and endless,
Yet never reaching this—truly laughable, I suppose.
Mosquitoes and gnats, who first created them?
Each mouth like a needle, sharp and keen.
Feasting on human flesh, filling their bellies,
Not silently leaving, but buzzing in flight, unseen.
Though now they still plague, with no way out,
There will come a time when autumn winds blow keen.
Your bodies will crumble, your mouths decay,
My bed will be stable, my pillow reclined, serene.
Usually many worthies are esteemed, yet they miss this,
Meeting the day of reclining rest, tranquil and serene.