Turning gray

My younger brother’s hair is turning gray. After visiting for more than a hundred days, he had to go, but it was hard to say goodbye, so I wrote a song to tell him to stay in touch, and to ease the pain of letting go. You’re trapped at the imperial palace; don’t work so hard that you get sick. It’s time to plan for you to retire and to settle near me, not far away. When I sing, you harmonize with me; when I’m drunk and falter, you keep me upright. But if I stop drinking, I’ll start to feel sad. You’ll never be happy if all you care about is what more ambitious people think.