South of the army station, on the ancient plain, walking several miles,
Suddenly I see a steep ridge stretching a thousand fathoms.
Who opened a path to break through the deep green?
Pines and cypresses planted opposite, how dense and somber!
Perilous roots burst forth from ancient cliffs,
Their aged hue undaunted by moss invasion.
Tall bamboos stand in neat rows like court officials,
Shading below stone teeth gleaming like gold.
Then I climb halfway up the ridge to gaze at the city walls,
Only see accumulated mist coiling by the river's edge.
Hills and mounds gradually turn, revealing towers and pavilions,
Sandy wilderness suddenly ends, giving way to a transverse garden.
Autumn light already presses, flowers and grass fade,
The cold air moreover rides deep into valleys and cliffs.
I drive my light carriage, how could I know weariness?
In a flash, I feel I've reached the lofty peaks.
Who carved this Dragon Gate here?
The jade tablet does not record what year it sank.
The spring's sound is truly worth hearing, a chorus of all tones,
The spring's essence wishes to be expressed, but there's no jade zither.
The Dipper turns, the terrain levels as if sliced,
A hundred acres of rice, yellow and uneven.
Three gates open wide, two roads lead out,
Yet two halls stand facing the cliff's shade.
A deep corridor, a thousand steps, reaches the cliff's belly,
Lofty trees, ten thousand trunks, rub against the sky's heart.
The stele's text, rugged and grand, its spirit not vulgar,
The brushstrokes, ethereal and faint, craftsmanship not of today.
Legend says an immortal's family dwelled in this place,
The celestial wind, clear and cool, blows upon my lapel.
People today—how could they understand the art of not aging?
Strange that black hair often fills the hairpin.
The origin is clear, I can explain,
A room's worth poured out, conveying precious jade.
Mutually lofty, yet not holding plow or hoe,
In prime of strength, not bearing sword or blade.
I, beset by hardship, have no leisure for debate,
Simply delight in the vast emptiness that opens my troubled heart.
A pure ballad leaves my lips as if pre-composed,
White wine comes to hand, no pause in pouring.
The mountain man grasps my sleeve and speaks to me,
Detains me, offers me the mountain's fowl.
Jade-like clarity at the window, sudden rain splashes,
Graceful and secluded across the stream, a lone flute sings.
Before dusk, I've moved closer to bright candles,
My ailing bones, lodging at night, add heavy quilts.
Spirit awake, energy kingly, eyes without sleep,
Till dawn, I alone love the flowing spring's sound.
Rising, I go to attend worldly affairs,
Yet a part of my heart never forgets the ascent.