Old man of fifty-eight finally has an heir—
quietly I ponder, a cause for joy, also a cause for sighs.
One pearl, so tiny it shames the oyster parent;
nine sons are many, but I'd never envy the crow.
Formed late in autumn moonlight, this fruit of the red cinnamon,
newly nursed by spring breezes, this bud of purple orchid—
I lift a cup in prayer and rejoicing, only this to say:
Take care, don't be stubborn and witless like your father!