On the day I was born, many visitors came to see me.
This year, I lie on my sickbed, like Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju, the poet!
With a stomach-ache, I must bear hunger, and eat very little.
My whole body weak, I always think of sleeping,
and close the doors early.
When I wake from dreams, for no reason,
I throb with grief;
my mind wanders, I think I'm still asleep,
in a total daze ...
Select your prescriptions, mix your drugs:
they just keep you sick —
my medicines must be the cliffs like screen-paintings,
and the little villages.