Classic Poem

Bright bright the gleam of the torches,
pungent the aroma of New Year's wine;
cackle-cackle—laughter of children playing,
long, long the last night of the year.
In the hall before festive curtains
old and young line up in a row.
Because I am the oldest,
each in turn offers me the wine cup.
Seventy—my end draws ever closer,
ten thousand entanglements banished from the mind.
Not only have I forgotten joys and delights,
I'm done too with sorrow and lamenting.
A plain screen is fit for a lay believer,
blue-robed maids attend my Meng Kuang.
Husband and wife, old, face each other,
each seated on a comfortable corded chair.