First lotuses, washed by rain, their brocade clouds still curled in crimson.
In splendid halls, poets and immortals await the far southern star.
Word returns: a mystic aura roamed peaks and streams, all wonders seen.
Now back to host guests, a crystal courtyard opens for feast.
Windows green and red, just like the capital, alive with song and flute.
As if hidden there, a beauty in golden house, Peach Root and Leaf, pure and graceful.
Leaning on warm breeze, his dragon-whiskers still dark, a jade-like man fans with silk.
In true romance, only Penglai and Yingzhou, seen in paintings before.
Who knows this old man feels quite detached, his zest here rather faint?
I only seek cinnabar and jade essence, hare's marrow and crow's liver, in crescent furnace, refined seven and nine times.
From past to present, long history tells: immortals were heroes first, yet laugh—heroes cling too much here.
Watch at dawn: plowing dragons, riding whales across seas, their crimson faces unchanged for millennia.
Even granted a fief of ten thousand miles, what use against north wind sharp as arrows?
Better yet, on broad hills, plant bamboos and flowers, ponder chess moves, wield ink by the pool.
Heaven recalls its first intent in siring sages: the world needs pillars to prop it up; could even a duke keep it steady if Heaven wills not?
Wait till the Han cause triumphs, then roam with Red Pine—that time is not too late.