Two years in Panyu as an official, never a moment free from duties' call.
One month in Jinkang as a guest, stealing leisure for two days in all.
The governor, a scion of Xuan, has a fondness for guests, a gracious thrall.
He invited us at noon's shade, to seek the Zen silence beyond the wall.
The vanguard broke through the dusk mist, up stone steps, a dozen twists and fall.
Grass overruns the century-old path, houses cling to cliffs, towering tall.
Climbing and groping to the summit, eyes gaze upon ten thousand things, small.
Host and guests, slightly hesitant; cups and plates, in great disarray sprawl.
Don't pour me too much mellow wine—my thirst is quenched by spring water's drawl.
Don't serve me too much fatty meat—my hunger feeds on tender sprouts' thrall.
Lately, southern cooking has harmed me, northern medicine costs a great deal.
Seated guests laugh, nearly toppling; the poet's fate is thin, they feel.
Toasting and responding with clamor, questions and answers in jest appeal.
Carriages and horses gallop through woods; yamen officers under pines squeal.
The governor initiated this outing, the scenery already surreal.
Why not learn from Xie An, who brought along singing girls for ideal?
Who will play the flowing water tune? Who will halt the drifting clouds' ordeal?
Rain comes, wind thins it, its force drifting and sudden, with swift repeal.
The bamboo sedan来不及乘, I hastily don my mountain clogs with zeal.
From tree tips, drips soak my headscarf; from stone cracks, mud stains my socks, I feel.
The dark-uniformed servant shows zeal, with torn sleeves争着to brush and kneel.
I scold the dark servant to stop—what do I care for socks or scarf's weal?
The mud is not worldly filth; the drips are essence from beyond earth's seal.
Stains I do not mind, the more the better—the more, the purer and more ideal.