In ancient times, poets aged but forty years,
Teeth lost, with weakening sight and ears.
Each spring, half spent in a coughing haze,
At cuckoos` cries, they`d weep in a mysterious daze.
With staffs in hand, by rivers and bridges, they`d roam,
Drawn to waters` edge as if it were home.
Their paces near the brink, we watch with anxious glance,
Fearful of a misstep, a fall, a fateful chance.
These bards of old, in gardens` bloom,
Returned with fever, yet wrote with no gloom.
In tales of spring, their pens raced fast,
Ensuring beauty of the season would forever last.
古代的诗人们
有不少刚过四十就疏牙豁齿
眼睛和耳朵也不太好使
整个春天 有半春在犯咳疾
一听到杜鹃啼鸣 就莫名其妙地陪着流泪
出门总是杖藜
偏偏还喜欢临河走 尤爱过桥
直让我们这些千百年后的读者时时揪心
会不会突然发生落水溺亡事件
古代的诗人们
赏花赏园归来 不顾发着高烧
一定要最早交出春游日记
谁不在暗暗较劲呐
切莫成为美好春光的一处败笔