Drinking at Eastern Slope by night,
I sober, then get drunk again.
When I come back, it's near midnight,
I hear the thunder of my houseboy's snore;
I knock but no one answers the door.
What can I do but, leaning on my cane,
Listen to the river's refrain?
I long regret I am not master of my own.
When can I ignore the hums of up and down?
In the still night the soft winds quiver
On ripples of the river.
From now on I would vanish with my little boat;
For the rest of my life on the sea I would float.