The guest boasts to me, telling of spring's radiant bloom in February.
Late or early, none compare to its present lushness and grace.
Moreover, with long days of clear warmth, pleasure-seekers ride in linked carriages.
Seasonal birds sing 'hulu,' buying wine, drunk and calling out.
Wandering youths and maidens vie to shine upon the streets and lanes.
Annoyed yet with nowhere to complain, half are madcap fools.
The ancients held candles to roam, past their time—what joy could they seek?
I regret you alone lie ill, out of step with the season's pace.
A room barely holding knees, groans—when will relief awake?
Rare flowers will fade and wither, green leaves will spread and thin.
Hearing birdsong, I find it good—can I match the Five Willows' peace?
I say what the guest admires is dazzled by form and hue.
Competing in a thousand reds and purples, brocade cannot suffice.
Changing in a thousand postures, colored paints cannot depict.
There is none not form and hue, yet these are life's leftover threads.
Ears and eyes cannot ponder; the mind, dark and alone, lies waste.
All these forms and hues—what root do they draw from?
Hidden function and manifest kindness, subtle and gross, are not apart.
Those who see only form and hue fail to know essence within the coarse.
Or do they know creation does not know that other lies in me?
Harmony nurtures all things; I am fully equipped—no falsehood here.
Creation has no limit; form and hue are but a fleeting moment.
Since things are made by me alone, how could they leave even an instant?
To see is always to see oneself, not two but ever together.
Roaming reclined, no need to move; wandering everywhere, no bounds.
Not in haste of travel, swiftly arriving—is it not the spirit?
Spring's craft exhausts heaven's skill; myriad wonders—how can they be praised?
Illness afflicts my one form and hue, yet thousands upon thousands never heal.
My room is not knee-wide; the cosmos is this single hut.
Merely viewing me as me, no wonder sighs are made for me.
Merely viewing the room as knee-wide, one deems it cramped, not free.
Perhaps illness brings no joy, yet my joy none can surpass.
Contrarily, those roaming folk find not joy but frantic chase.
Merely with bees and butterflies, they rush and swarm the flying paths.
Though February soon will end, I am the wind dancing at the rain altar.
The guest's heart still unawakened, laughs at me—how foolish I seem.