Searching scriptures for ancient green-character texts,
Relying on wine to borrow rosy cheeks.
Have you not seen the autumn mountains, silent after the gale ceases,
At midnight, the blue cliff exhales a bright moon?
The cold light suddenly emerges between pines and bamboos,
All sounds, rustling, arise from this moment.
Suddenly I hear song and pipe chant in the north wind,
Their essence and soul seem to dwell within the secluded rocks.
Silver blossoms hang on the courtyard plaque,
Divine force shakes the bell's silk cord.
Lush and graceful in the gentle breeze,
As if held in the mouth, as if drooping—beyond compare.
Since that dream at Gaotang,
Truly, no one has surpassed the King of Chu.
Oxen and sheep are prepared as special offerings,
The mind awakened, feels the body's toil.
Abandoning the precious sword amid the clouds,
Long idleness breeds flesh on the thighs.
Long life, with lengthy eyebrow hairs,
Writing in the air, sleeping with feet propped up.
On perilous paths, walk sideways.
Whose young girl sings, tapping her chopsticks?
Where is the Ding's wife, lighting her lamp to weave?
Fish and shrimp gather at the tangerine market.
Fortune and misfortune are divined by people's heavenly stems,
Enduring until meeting the celestial warrior.
In Luoyang, they praise the young,
East of the mountains, they acclaim the lofty land.
Among the world's men of letters,
Who is the foremost?
Old scholars boast of hidden clumsiness,
The current generation slanders sharp novelty.
Calmly, the cold pool is a hundred feet deep,
A strange wine vessel, casually handled.
Satirical advice is gladly accepted.