China DOS Union

How many autumn winds, how many chills; casting aside poems and books, I board a traveler’s boat
The river moon is no match for the shine of bronze water caltrops; even the fishing lights still know how to reflect on drifting sails
Wutong leaves fall, and by the midnight lamp, on which side do idle flowers bloom
I raise my cup to the sky, the moon is still round, while the black hair at my temples is disheveled like snow
Like snow, disordered like snow, I ask why the wayfarer will not return
From the Silver River I glimpse afar the cassia in the Moon Palace; that year I once passed Xiaogu Mountain
Hand in hand, speechless, we parted and went our ways; for now I only let the moon-mottled remains of the window shine through
As if on the riverbank the willow trees stood, their long drooping branches lingering on the shoal

Walk this way, walk that way.

Merely seeking flowers and asking after willows;

Walk that way, walk this way.

Just drink from the golden wine cup;

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- How many autumns are there in a life? One may seek flowers, may ask after willows.
Why does the wolf walk alone?

Flowers are not flowers, willows are not willows

Year after year, season after season,
When the moon is full, it is when all words fall silent.
One morning of fine horses and famous carriages, beauties whispering drunkenly.
In the end, a dashing life is no more than a mosquito’s eyelash.
The fragrance of cassia drifts and scatters before the nose,
All passes within a dream of vanity.
Before Ma'anshan the running water flows—when the qin is broken, who will take it up?
Though a master hand returns in triumph, magpies are born in the phoenix parasol.
The lovely moon flows over the river, facing only an empty pavilion with no one there.
In the grave there remains only the knotting of robes and caps.
Recall no more the red pledge and the white vow, the flowing grace and whirling snow.
Dust and fragrance cling to the sleeves, yet one does not even notice.
That song on the wind—who was there that could understand it?
Drunk, I dance after two or three cups of wine, and in wildness play with ink,
Ink traces written on banana leaves.
Before the courtyard, at the season when the geese’ formation comes into view,
In the lotus pond the stalks are broken and the lotus leaves are gone. The wild wind confuses the eyes, giving no one leave to choose.
This moon,
This clear, clear, cold night.
By the bridge the wild fires gradually die out.
How much less can one bear the biting wind? Better to go home.
Old willows by the quiet marsh, reed flowers covering the fields.
Among the bamboo no trace is seen of a rain cape or hat,
Beyond the curtain there is slanting drizzle.
When a thousand-foot line drops and meets a golden-scaled fish,
Only then does one know the line’s tip need not be of iron.