A Poem on My Old Age, to Show to My Family

I've lived to the age of seventy-five,
lucky to have a salary of fifty thousand,
husband and wife grown old together,
nephews and nieces gathered around too.
Gruel is tasty with the savor of new rice,
robes are snug—the old floss padding has been replaced.
Though the house itself is empty and barnlike,
family members live here in happy harmony.
I've put my couch by the plain white screen,
moved the stove over in front of the blue curtains.
Books?—I listen as a child or grandchild reads to me;
hot water?—I watch the boy heating some up.
With rapid brush I reply to poems received,
doff a garment to cover the cost of medicine.
And once these trivial chores are over,
I scratch my back and doze in the sun.
Author of original: 
Po Chü-i
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