The drizzle, white over the plum trees, falls in fine threads.
I close the door, sit and read, book-drunken.
Two thirds of my spring have been idled away.
At fifty I see myself a dwindling old man.
The mind yearns for home, but the bird is spent,
The tides of imperial favor swell, but the fish comes too late.
Only the reckless spirit of youth remains:
I will roll back the winter wind and write a new poem.
Only a pale moonlight remains, night drawing to a close.
A breeze carrying cool air from the east.
Willow branches whirl in the sky to rest on the pavilion.
Bamboos bang against the railing, waking me from my dream.
Moisture from a distant rain drifts in and clings to everything.
Suddenly I realize the rosy tint has left my face.
I banish the thought with three cups of wine.
Patting my sword, I remember the mountains and my battlefields.