On the ancient path beside the setting sun in loneliness, I quietly lie on the grass mat and watch the color of the rain.
At the crow of the rooster three times at dawn, whose heavy sorrow lifts the curtain and awakens.
All the world is drunk and it's hard to be the only sober one; don't wrap the white verse with the red silk.
Pity the mandarin ducks who do not envy the immortals, for the Weaving Maid and the Cowherd are each on their separate sides.