The waters of the mighty Yangzi flow eastward,
its spray drowning countless heroes.
Right and wrong, success and failure, become empty in the blink of an eye;
green mountains are always present;
how many times has the setting sun been red?
The white haired fishermen and woodcutters are standing on the sand bars near the banks,
accustomed as they are to gazing at the autumn moon and the spring breezes.
By chance, they happily meet with a jar of strong liquor in hand;
how many things from past and present have they laughed and talked about with each other?