English

The rebels' cavalry are everywhere:
our generals did battle over and over again.
Between heaven and earth, lost in broad daylight,
everything was hidden in yellow dust!
And so their blood flowed in rivers and lakes,
their bows and armor lay scattered, away from their bodies.
Who can write an ode, " Summoning Their Souls? "
I entrust my tears to the green reeds.

My thoughts flow in streams around this tower;
the rain slants in, splattering the room.
Sadly I stare at clouds like mountains,
remembering home far away.
There tonight is celebrated the Festival of Mid-Autumn.

Cotton blankets let in the cold,
dreams will not take shape;
in this hotel room the guttering lamp glimmers,
nearly goes out.
Midnight, two o'clock, four in the morning —
no human sounds at all.
I listen to the wind, listen to the rain,
listen to the sound of the pines.

In a hidden spot on the northern mountain,
reached by a wooden bridge,
the mountain spirit quietly keeps watch
over a grove of flowering kuei .
Fearing that the autumn winds may blow the blossoms down,
I will sleep among these flowers tonight,
along with the cranes and gibbons.

A traveler, I've been through a thousand changes.
Thinking of home, my insides turn over nine times!
Here in Yangchou they have good local wine:
What a pity that I'm drinking alone!

An old monk perches at the tip of a tree —
but this is only external samadhi!
Master Wu's brush is imbued with spirit,
but even he can't paint the Buddha-Nature!

Desolate poems of chaotic times — could I bear
to hear them again?
Misty peaks like ochre wash,
waters like burnt-out ash!
Beneath Po Chü-i's embankment of white sand,
reeds from the era of T'ang;
beside the tomb of the Prince of O,
clouds that date from Sung.
In the trees the orioles —
today they are my friends;
perched on a branch, a cuckoo sings —
in days of old, a king!
Like " K'un-ming Lake, " after dissolution —
a bell still sounds through the air:
coiling among the lakeside mountains

Three feet of mud in this narrow alley:
no one comes to visit me, hidden in seclusion.
Whistling at the window, the wind keeps me from sleep;
dampening the stove, raindrops make poverty even worse.
On country roads, wild flowers greet the traveler,
on bridges spanning the river, willows see him off.
For now, I must lead this primitive life
and rest this exiled body as best I can.

Suddenly, warm weather, I change to lighter clothes.
Quietly, I stroll along the green banks.
The birds chirp, as if they had a complaint;
the flowers look saddened, as if lamenting some loss.
I remember the older generations for their integrity,
and stand in awe of the young for their talents.
I feel a natural love for the pleasures of the country:
I've never purposely hidden from the world of reputation!

Reflections in the river: trembling spring trees.
High-water marks: engraved on the evening sand.
Green reeds, three feet of rainwater;
red hibiscus, a hedgeful of blossoms.
Leave your country, and you still think of your country.
Return home, and you go on dreaming of home!
I have never had a desire for rank and salary:
why do I have to be so far from the capital?