Our wandering eyes are sated with the dancer's skill,
Our ears are weary with the sound of " kung " and " shang. "
Our host is silent and sits doing nothing:
All the guests go on to places of amusement.
. . . . . . . . . .
On long benches the sportsmen sit ranged
Round a cleared room, watching the fighting-cocks,
The gallant birds are all in battle-trim:
They raise their tails and flap defiantly.
Their beating wings stir the calm air:
Their angry eyes gleam with a red light.
Where their beaks have struck, the fine feathers are scattered:
With their strong talons they wound again and again.
Their long cries enter the blue clouds;
Their flapping wings tirelessly beat and throb.
" Pray God the lamp-oil lasts a little longer,
Then I shall not leave without winning the match! "