Bad wine is like bad men,
deadlier in attack than arrows or knives.
I collapse on the platform;
victory hopeless, truce will have to do.
The old poet carries on bravely,
the Zen master’ words are gentle and profound.
Too drunk to follow what they’re saying,
I’m conscious only of a red and green blur.
I wake to find the moon sinking into the river,
the wind rustling with a different sound.
A lone lamp burns by the altar,
but the two heroes—both have disappeared.

translated by Burton Watson