Gift on the fifteenth night of the eighth month to Zhang Gongcao

Gift on the fifteenth night of the eighth month to Zhang Gongcao

Thin clouds roll up across the four quarters, the sky shows no river of stars. A clear breeze blows through the open air, the moon unfurls its waves of light. The sands are still, the water rests—no sound, no shadow remains. I raise a cup to you: you should sing.

Your song is bitter, its words so pained, I cannot bear to hear it through—tears fall like rain. Dongting stretches to the sky, Jiu-yi rises high; dragons plunge and emerge, gibbons and flying-squirrels cry out. Nine deaths, one life, to reach your post—you live hidden and mute, as if in hiding from the law. You fear snakes when you get out of bed, fear poison in your food; the damp sea-vapours steam with a rank, foul stench. Just before this, in front of the prefecture, the great drum was beaten: the new emperor, following the sage ascent, has raised up Kui and Gao. The pardon decree travels ten thousand li in a single day; crimes punishable by death are all removed from the list. Those who were demoted are recalled, those who were exiled are returned; stains are washed away, filth removed, and all are cleared at court. The prefecture submits your name, but the commissioner's office blocks you; thwarted, you are merely transferred to the wilds of Jing-man. A petty subordinate official is not worth speaking of—you cannot escape being beaten in the dust. Many of your contemporaries have gone up the road, but the way of heaven is dark and perilous—hard to follow or climb.

Stop your song and listen to mine—my song is of a different kind from yours. In a full year of bright moons, tonight's is the brightest; a human life follows fate, not other causes. If you have wine and do not drink—what will you do with the bright moon?