Drunk, I walk with a seven-foot frosty sword in hand,
Before Cloud Brocade Mountain, the river makes a few bends.
Autumn rain at the stream's head adds to the cold, green band,
A pot of jade immersed where the dragon coldly tends.
Smartweeds along the bank, red as if about to flow,
Rice fields high and low like a chessboard spread below.
Blue cliffs tower halfway into the azure sky,
Birds dare not fly, drawing back their feet on high.
An ancient cave, no man, stone wine-vat stands alone,
A steep cliff stores celestial grain, by gods bestown.
The old guide points and gasps, still startled by the sight,
Carved by spirits and ghosts, the cliffs emerge in light.
The sound of pounding herbs is dry, the man's now divine,
A ten-thousand-foot deep well, a spring of pure design.
Wind strikes the ancient pine, its emerald canopy flies,
Sun shines on moss, casting green coins before our eyes.
Vines and creepers tear the trees, parting the light mist,
The yellow crane left once, what year did it desist?
The sky leans toward sunset, cicadas sing in vain,
Deep in the night, the ridge moon—for whom does it wax again?
An old temple, a few beams of an ancient house remain,
One or two aged monks close the wooden door in pain.
An iron statue faces the wall, desolate and still,
Before the ancient hall, an incense burner, no fire to fill.
Cold crows come to the window, eaves' dripping slows its pace,
Evening clouds and withered grass make the mountain thin its face.
A paper quilt brings no warmth, sleep will not come to me,
Tiger roars enter the ear, then again ape cries I hear.
A few sparse stars fall upon the parasol tree,
Red ridges and purple gullies strive in height, wild and free.
When shall I roam carefree, riding a blue ox so grand,
At dawn, dew cold and clear, in a white jade tower I'll stand?