The embroidered curtains rolled at sunset,

the river before the porch runs to the sky.

The scarlet ink is shining, paint still wet,

just for me, this window, this splendid sight.

I often recall my times at the Hall of Mt Ping

for the mist and rains of River South’s spring.

The best view was from the window on my pillow.

Some lonely goose would fly by and out of sight.

“The hills appear to disappear” in drifting smoke….

I could taste Xiu’s thinking in his drinking ci poem.

 

 

The river by the pavilion spreads far and wide,

like broad sea, mirrors easily all the green peaks.

A wind rises, lifting as if a white leaf yonder --

an old boy in his boat winding down the river,

as free as a bird on wind, as light as a feather….

I can’t help but laugh at Song Yu’s nonsense here.

He couldn’t understand Zhuang Zi on moving air,

but went on fooling the king with male and female.

Just look there, a fearless spirit and a strong wind

are all you need to sail rocky waters on your feet.