A Gift to Wei the Eighth Gentleman

A Gift to Wei the Eighth Gentleman

We meet in this life but rarely,

shifting like the stars Shen and Shang.

What night is this, this very night,

that we share the light of lamp and candle together?

How long can youth and strength last?

Already our temples have both turned gray.

Searching out old friends, half have become ghosts—

startled cries, a burning ache in the breast.

Who could have known that after twenty years

I would once again ascend your gentleman's hall?

When we parted long ago, you had not yet married—

suddenly your sons and daughters stand in a row.

Warmly and respectfully they greet their father's friend,

asking me from what place I have come.

Before questions and answers have even ceased,

you send your children to set out wine and sauce.

Night rain falls on spring-cut leeks,

fresh millet cooked between the courses.

My host declares how rare it is to meet again,

and raises cup after cup—ten in a row.

Ten cups and still I am not drunk,

moved by how deep and lasting your old affection is.

Tomorrow the mountains and peaks will part us,

and the affairs of this world—both shrouded in boundless haze.