Fog obscures the deserted mountain,
deep in autumn colors;
in the thatched hut, the wine is ready—
for whom shall I pour it?
Chrysanthemums and maple leaves
share sadness with me;
the gully stream and wind in the pines
accompany my lonely chant.
I wash out my ears, unwilling to hear
what vulgar people say;
in drunken sleep, I no longer play
the pure tones of my lute.
Far off, I know you are gazing at the moon,
deep in thoughts of me:
how could I help but write this poem
to console your troubled heart?