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Withered vines, old trees and a crow perched in the sunset,
A small bridge, a brooklet and a few mere huts…
On an old road, a breeze from the west sighs on an emaciated horse,
The sun is setting.
A broken-hearted man, standing on life’s cliff.

A hundred years pass like but a dream of a butterfly,
Looking back, sighing of events past.
Today, spring is here,
But flowers wither by tomorrow.
Quickly, another drink!
For too soon it’ll be night and lights be out.

Recalling the grandeurs of the Chin and Han Palaces,
Are now but grazing grasslands for cows and goats.
Not knowing the past, cowherds have nothing to speak of,
Tombs a broken, broken steles a strewn.
Distinguishing not the inscriptions written upon them.

What’s buried within are now but homes of foxes and hares,
Glories of heroes, where art thou now?
Once the tripartite you were, vying for the heavens,
So where are the dynasties of Wei and Tsin?

Heaven warns one not to flaunt their wealth in luxury,
How many good days lay ahead?
How many peaceful nights are there?
Yet there are money grabbers, hearts of stone,
Amassing wealth but forgetting how to live.
Just take a look, the sun is now setting,
Sickness arriving like a cart rushing downhill, unstoppable.
Morning comes, only to find a few more grey hairs in the mirror!
Each night to bed, bidding adieu to one’s socks and shoes,
For tomorrow ye may not have the chance to put them on.
Laugh not at the messy nest construction of the pigeons.
Sometimes, it is good to be the clown.

Seek no longer for fame and advantages.
Cease all gossips.
Let not court world affairs of knocking on your doorstep.
Perchance you see green trees through the holes of the wall,
Just take it that you have the view of yon majestic mountains.
A bamboo fence and a hut of straw for me.

Packed like canned sardines, ants amassed for war,
Busy bees in pairs seeking for honey,
Flies fighting for a drop of blood.
Live simply and enjoy life.
How I love thee, my autumn…
I pluck dewy chrysanthemums.
In frost, I cooked fat crabs.
Have a sip of hot wine
And burn red leaves of fall.
There are only so many cups of wine in life,
How many Double Ninth Festivals can you enjoy?
Hey, you little imps!
Remember my warning:
Even if people of importance come a calling,
Just tell them that I’m drunk, unable to greet.




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