Early morning sunshine bakes the mist red and blue,

On my pond's west bank, east of ancient Yue's ruined wall.

Half of a man emerges above the paddy blossoms;

A lone heron flashes among water-chestnut leaves.

I stroll along aimlessly, for I know all the old paths by heart,

But I'm shocked again and again how my neighbors have aged.

In the willow I planted long ago by the arched bridge's side,

Countless cicadas now hum, and the tree sweeps the sky - green.

Autumn comes as if by appointment and doesn't need to be rushed;

He invigorates me with his rain's patter and the soughing of wind.

Let the summer's warm sunrays sneak off as if they were bandits;

Then I won't blame old age pouring toward me like an ocean tide.

A wine cup in hand moves my heart to write verse,

A pile of books invites my sickly eyes to read.

Tomorrow it will be colder - I can predict the weather already:

At evening the clouds are jumbled up into big, messy piles!

As I get older I prefer freedom from Demon Sleep;

I can sit still as a stump and listen to the fifth watch's drumbeats. […]