The cool wind, it’s good for puffing along the pale green lace of dew,
your arrogance and fever are good for reaching heights and getting famous —

Stubbornly, midnight, you come to the city’s cultural sites
to make a ceremonial visit.  The night stretches at the waist,

Sometimes wearing the scales of a businessman, others the lonely ire of the curling pumpkin flower:
the elder doesn't care to be modest, mounds of flowers refuse to raise the white flag.

Snake!  All you care about is your turf, its rivers and lakes,
whether you wander or not, it’s the same.  Your passion, it is still the passion of the Boxers!

In the narrow alley, how will you take care of the glossy waves breaking over your forehead,
rivers rushing from the interior, playing with the universe in the palm, convinced of godhood.

Ghosts have gone out of style, actually, chives ignite the eye's pupils....
Your commentary's naturally gone poor, putting up satellites, not putting out the honest heart.

So you can talk bull until the cows come home, but you're still a player:
dew throws itself at the sizzling iron-clad roof, can't you just quiet down and lose some weight?