Cold Food Festival by Tom Sharp

No amount of wine warms my dish during Cold Food Festival. No one wants to sit beside the sour old man. My boat is drifting on the clouds reflected on the surface of the river. The shore is veiled in a fog to my old eyes. Butterflies fly wherever they wish and swallows glide over rushing water but I’m not a butterfly or swallow. The sky arches over the world and clouds drift over green mountains. Even if I think of home, I only worry.

小寒食舟中作 by 杜甫 (Du Fu)

佳辰强饮食犹寒，隐几萧条戴鹖冠。 春水船如天上坐，老年花似雾中看。 娟娟戏蝶过闲幔，片片轻鸥下急湍。 云白山青万余里，愁看直北是长安。