everyone I meet     is struck by how I’ve aged

and everywhere I go     I’m offered cups of wine

I’ve eaten little     no more than a bird would

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approached favor     as wisely as Yang Zhen

relief spreads     through the humid lowlands

after the wind rushes      over Dongting Lake  

please pay a visit     to Wei Tiao of Shaozhou

just yesterday     he sent me these new poems

for ten long summers     I wore the cloth of Shu

three winters     heard washing blocks of Chu

once an advisor     honored in the governor’s tent

now only a wanderer     unable to return home

when the rough waves     make it hard to read

I walk the shore     and pick flowers for a while

above Kongling Bank     red rocks rise steeply

maple tree trunks     concealed among the cliffs

and there were dancers     in red silk stockings

pureblooded horses     with manes white as snow

now a white horse     arrives from the northeast

the riderless saddle     pierced by two arrows

passing calmly     beside the banks of Chenzhou

I heard no news     of the revolt in Changsha

in the paddy fields     the first seeds are planted

and spring fires     again spread across the hills

herbs and roots     hungry on Mount Shouyang

or millet and horses     offered for good service

my entire life     I’ve sung these songs of grief

nowhere though     has anyone understood them

the waning moon     still hasn’t risen tonight

our one small lamp     struggles against the wind

my maternal uncle     has sent me an invitation

his letter is filled     with a hundred flowing lines

 first you’ll ride north     by carriage to Hanyang

then you’ll sail south     down the Shuang River

the imperial court     still suffers from disorder

ordinary people     depend on you as an official

I hear the geese     migrate strangely this spring

they fly further south     past even Guangzhou

since the comet     foretold An Lushan’s rebellion

ritual vessels     have sat unused in the temple