Roaming is hard, roaming is hard,
Across ten thousand miles of misty waters, the four seas are vast.
To speak of such bitter taste,
How can it not make one's nose turn sour?
First leaving home mountains, bidding farewell to flesh and blood,
With three hundred coins tied at the waist.
Pondering the difficulty of seeking a master and visiting the Way,
Tonight, I know not where to lodge.
Unaware, I've walked two or three stages,
People say this place is Zhangcheng.
The clothes on my body are all pawned and sold,
On the road, I have not seen a single soul.
First arriving at a lone village, lodging in a lone inn,
Birds cry, flowers fall, a thousand woods in late dusk.
Tomorrow morning, after an early meal, I set off again,
With only a single umbrella by my side.
Gradually coming to Xinghua Army,
Wind and rain rustle, about to send off spring.
Only an empty self, bare and rough,
In the pouch, there are still two or three coins.
Walking with hardship, feet without strength,
The whole body itches, all infested with lice.
Blankly arriving here, stripped bare,
Thinking of returning home, yet unable to return.
What to do after more than ten days guarding an empty stomach?
Hiding name and surname, who would know?
Coming to Luoyuan Xingfu Temple,
Then I offered myself to become a servant boy.
When first a servant, not yet half a month,
Again I bid farewell to the monk master.
Fire clouds fly up to Zhiti Peak,
Stones on the road are hot as fire.
Blazing, fearsome sun scorches the sky,
Unable to bear walking barefoot on the road.
A mountain of flesh streams with sweat,
How could there be a fan to wave for breeze?
Yet glad to pass beyond the three periods of summer heat,
My tracks now return to Jianpu.
Truly poor to the bone, to the marrow,
One night in desolate outskirts, rain on parasol trees.
Dusk, looking around, tears flow,
No bamboo hat, no straw cape—sorrow or not?
Huddling by the thatched eaves, waiting for daybreak,
The village old man won't allow me under the eaves.
I hear Jianning people are kind and charitable,
So I come here seeking clothing and food.
In my ears, only sounds of shame,
Who has eyes of compassion?
Recalling former days of wealth and honor,
Lowering head, looking at nose, frowning both brows.
At every household door, empty hands outstretched,
Is there one who pities a beggar?
Coming out from Fujian to Longhu,
At Shangqing Palace, paying respects to the palace master.
Before acquaintance, seeking lodging,
The hall keeper dislikes my ragged clothes.
Just like first arriving at Wuyi,
When Taoist priests in yellow caps scolded me.
A bit of spoiled rice, cold cooked water,
Saying my loneliness and poverty disgrace them.
East and west of the river, south and north of the lake,
Left and right of Zhe, connecting to Western Shu.
Guang, Min, Huai, Hai—tens of thousands of miles,
A thousand mountains, ten thousand waters, all in vain busy.
Roaming unawares for many years,
Fellow Taoists laugh at me, how mad I am.
Old travels repeated, coming and going again,
Great affairs in haste, do not blame heaven.
If my life indeed has a share of immortality,
Ahead there is someone I can ask as teacher.
Now, having experienced, I am muddled,
In my chest, not a bit of gloom remains.
I remember when war fires rose in Huaixi,
Desolate for miles, all were corpses strewn.
Fortunately, heaven granted remnant life,
Enduring this hunger and thirst, unbearable sorrow.
I remember Wulin's sky heavy with snow,
Clothes torn, wind cutting to the bone.
Moreover, with essence and qi whole in the body,
Still frozen till skin splits and blood oozes.
Again I think of ancient temple times of wind and rain,
Incense burner without fire, paper money flying.
Gods wail, ghosts cry, heaven bleak and grim,
Dew cold, clouds chill, gibbons cry at night.
Again I think of lying in grass under severe frost,
Moon shining on green moss, yellow leaves falling.
Having not obtained a bit of true enjoyment,
How can one bear not feeling desolate?
By chance one day, heaven opened its eyes,
Chen Niwan Gong knew my laziness.
Mid-autumn of Guichou, wilds clear,
Sitting alone under pine shade, speaking of long and short.
Originally, at home there was true gold,
Former days' toil was in vain effort.
Having obtained the secret to long life and preserving life,
Thatched hut built, sitting quietly deep in white clouds.
Refining the golden elixir is also easy,
Sometimes in mountains, sometimes in market.
Casually composing this Song of Roaming,
Fearing people not knowing the meaning of roaming.