Now high autumn has cleared my lungs, I can
Comb this white hair myself. Forever needing
A little more, a little less—I’m sick of drug-cakes.
The courtyard miserably unswept—I bow

To a guest, clutching my goosefoot cane. Our
Son copies my idylls on bamboo they praise.
By November, the river steady and smooth again,
A light boat will carry me anywhere I please.

translated by David Hinton