The Yangtze rolls eastward and its waves wash away all heroes.
Right and wrong, success and failure, turn to emptiness; green mountains remain, and the evening sun returns again and again.
White-haired fishers and woodcutters on river islets are used to autumn moons and spring breezes.
With one pot of turbid wine we rejoice at meeting; how many affairs of past and present are left to laughter and conversation.