Rolling, rolling the Yangtze flows east,
The waves washing away heroes.
Right and wrong, success and failure, all empty.
The green mountains remain,
How many red sunsets?
White haired fisherman by the riverside,
Watching the autumn moon and the spring breeze;
A pot of unstrained wine welcomes me again.
How many events, from antiquity until now,
All are matter for our laughter and talk?