鐔津文集 18.41

18.41

Having fought back the demon of sleep, I pour more tea; / opening the scrolls of writing again, my vision blurs with spots. / Pleased to meet this long night while the body remains healthy; / straining to match new poems, my mood is not yet fine. / The wind is gentle, gibbon cries pure as Sanskrit chanting; / the moon is bright, cedar shadows dense as hemp. / In year-end cold, by the lamp wick flying moths perish: / why bother diligently guarding it with thin gauze?