A wild party, laughter in the night:
Are these women or flowers bathed in light?
In mirth you even forget old age.
Drunk, you no longer need a river.
What night is this?
The crescent slinks behind the western hills.
There, there—three, four, five people—
are you real or dreams?
The world is only as the eye sees it:
A grudge is a hangover from a past life.
It’s written in Heaven’s logbook: Be tipsy,
love beauty, flow with the music;
choose your form: Be high, stoned, passionate,
(In the drunk realm, who can say what is ultimate?)
The body always wears a disguise,
but here you see a man’s true nature.
Forgetting at last even moon and flowers,
we taste in the wine
Translated by Nguyen Ngoc Bich