Do not ask how many autumns in Qiantang, the tide once wet the green shirt sleeves. Fifty thousand silver scales turn the snow waves, who would expect? A pole breaks the great river's flow.

Twenty star barges pierce the miasma, just wait! Forty cloud sails tear the Wu hook. Sixty-six days of wind pass by, laughing and pointing: the straw raincoat is still on the fishing boat.