A roamer from the east to the west for three years,
Worn out in my blue gown, dusty my hat appears.
Like floating cloud over the ferry of west stream,
Or grass overgrown in Three Gorges, my grief would seem.
From year to year spring plate is as good as spring wine;
We vie to be drunk adorned with ribbons fine.
All of us have grown older by one year today;
I’m not the only one to olden in my way.