That year on the Orange Island head
the Xiangjiang River flowed to the north
a generation of heroes in their primes
where are they today?
Yueyang Tower in the past
seeking the ancient ferry to the south
the misty rain of six dynasties
the preservation of the scene but the years without a trace
To the mirror sad to my white hairs in vain
sighed I was so sorrowful
too fond of drink in dead drunk
a pot of turbid wine let me know the world taste
Near the table I lighted a red candle
and praised he was satisfied
an idle pen was thoughtful
a few cups of green tea to respect the sage