Going home!
The land will soon lie in waste. Why should not I go home?
Since I willingly let my mind be enslaved by my worldly desires,
Why should I feel remorseful and sad?
Knowing that what I did in the past cannot be redressed,
I can still retrieve my mistakes in the future;
I have not gone too far on the wrong path,
And now I am on the right path of today, not the wrong one of yesterday.
The boat is moving swiftly ahead with the wind blowing on my garment,
I ask the way from a passer-by and feel sad that there is yet only a gleam of early dawn.
The shabby house is in view in the distance,I run happily towards it.
The boy servant comes forward to welcome me,
My youngest son is also waiting for me at the gate.
Though the paths in the garden have nearly been decimated,
The pine trees and the chrysanthemums are still there.
Holding the hand of my child, I walk into the house,
There on the table is wine prepared.
I take up the wine vessel and drink alone,
Enjoying the view of the trees in the garden.
I lean against the south window to indulge in my lofty meditations,
Contented with the ease of living in a small house.
I find pleasure in walking in the garden every day,
Though there is a gate, it is closed all day.
With a staff I roam around, and rest whenever I feel the need,
And at times raise my head to look at things in the distance.
Clouds drift out aimlessly from behind the mountains,
Birds will return to their nests when tired.
It grows dim as the sun sets,
I linger, stroking the trunk of the solitary pine tree.
Going home! I will cut off all human relations.
Since the world is at odds with me,
What should I seek by driving out in a carriage?
I will have intimate talks with my kinsmen,
And forget my miseries by playing on the harp and reading books.
Country folks will come to tell me that spring has come,
And that farm work will begin in the western field.
I would either ride on a cart, or row a small boat,
Sometimes following a clear and deep stream that leads me to a valley,
Sometimes walking along a rugged and bumpy path that takes me over a hill.
Trees are growing boisterously,
Spring water is flowing smoothly.
I envy all things that enjoy the blessings of nature
And feel miserable that my life will soon be over.
Alas! How many more days can I live on this earth?
Why not take life as it is?
Why do I worry? What am I aspiring to?
I do not seek wealth and position,
Nor do I desire to live with fairies and gods.
I would go out alone on a fine day,
To cultivate farmland with my staff laid aside.
I would shout aloud on the top of the eastern hill,
And compose poems by clear streams.
Welcoming death as part of the vicissitudes of life,
I would be contented with what is willed by Heaven.
What else do I want?