<Header>
<Author: 白居易>
<Title: 自詠>
<Format: 五言律詩>
<Year: 1981>
<BookName: Tu Fu -A New Translation>
<Translator: Wu, Juntao>
<TranslatedTitle: Singing to Myself>
<BookPage: 135-136>
<UsedPage: 2>
<Feature: 1>
<End Header>
<Poem>
鬚白面微紅，
醺醺半醉中。
百年隨手過，
萬事轉頭空。
臥疾瘦居士，
行歌狂老翁。
<End Poem>
<Translation>
My hair is pure white,
My face partially red,
My expression half-tipsy.
A century might pass
In much this condition;
Whatever way you look,
Ten thousand objects
All connote emptiness.
An emaciated recluse
Is lying sick;
An old man
Is wildly singing.
Still, I have the good news, my friend,
That you are sending me a painted screen.
<End Translation>
<Formatted Translation>
My hair is pure white, my face partially red,
My expression half-tipsy.
A century might pass in much this condition;
Whatever way you look, ten thousand objects all connote emptiness.
An emaciated recluse is lying sick;
An old man is wildly singing.
Still, I have the good news, my friend,
That you are sending me a painted screen.
<End Formatted Translation>