The Yangtze rolls eastward without end, and its waves have washed away all heroes.
Right and wrong, success and failure, turn to emptiness; the green mountains remain as sunsets return again and again.
White-haired fishers and woodcutters on the river islet are used to autumn moon and spring breeze.
A pot of turbid wine brings delight at meeting; all events past and present are left to casual talk and laughter.