Boundless Falling Leaves, Rustling Down

The wind is swift, the sky high, and the apes cry mournfully; over clear islets and white sand, birds wheel back.

Endless leaves tumble down with a rustle, while the mighty Yangtze rolls on without end.

A thousand miles from home, I mourn autumn as a lifelong wanderer; sick and frail in old age, I climb the tower alone.

Hardship and grief have frosted my temples, and in my decline I have newly given up my cup of cloudy wine.