For a Retired Scholar (Du Fu: For a Retired Scholar)

In this floating life, we seldom meet each other—like the stars Shen and Shang, one rises as the other sets. What blessed night is this, that we can share the lamplight together? How long can the days of youth and vigor last? In a blink, our temples have turned gray. I ask about old friends and relatives—more than half have become ghosts. Shocked, I cry out, and a burning passion stirs within. Who could have foreseen that after twenty years, I would once again step into your hall? When we parted, you were not yet married; now your sons and daughters have suddenly lined up in rows. They warmly and respectfully greet their father's old friend, asking me from where I have come. Before the questions and answers are done, you urge them to bring out the wine and dishes. Night rain cuts the spring chives; freshly cooked rice is mixed with yellow millet. The host says it is rare to meet, and we raise our cups ten times in a row. Ten cups do not bring drunkenness—I am moved by your deep and enduring friendship. Tomorrow, mountains will separate us, and the affairs of this world are vast and uncertain, hard to foresee.