At the Beginning of Spring
Stranded three years along the Ba mountains,
My hat served as a dirty foil to the blue-gowned conditions.
Reaching the clouds of the western ford,
I fretted over the grass by the Qutang Gorge.
Each spring is fine for its plates and wines,
Before paced out with the silvery pennants of mine.
One year to each of us the Creator could afford,
Not I who am exceptionally scaled by one-year-old forge.