They say the Gorge's peaks are the world's wonder, yet to see them, three thousand miles lie asunder.
I often fear procrastination will leave this longing vain; without a destined chance, how could I ever attain?
By chance, I met Moon Lake, who rose to serve the state, just as he pointed to Kui Gate, lamenting its dire fate.
Joyfully he urged me to ascend with him straightway, for long we've shared a kindred spirit, come what may.
Never weary of fine views, I lean on my cane; fear not the westward journey, we'll share the toil and strain.
With embroidered banners ahead, we reach Jiangling town; painted prows greet our carriage where the sand market's known.
The boatman pounds the drum, turning the vessel's head; the river god sends back the wind, our flag's tail widespread.
We trace the cliffs and rocks, delighting in secluded grace, yet face the roaring waves with a light and fearless pace.
Through mist-veiled boats and smoke-wrapped cables, we roam deep and free, lodging in dew, dining on wind, imbued with purity.
A thousand crafts, a hundred wonders, like divine art arrayed, swarm to my mind, troubling the verse I would have made.
To seize a line, yet fear it clumsy, hard to hold the pen; I wish to write, then pause, and set it down again.
Last year in Yanling, sights that shocked the eye, I picked and sketched them in a travel diary.
This year in Jiangxia, what I hear and see anew, I gather fragments, following the old tale through.
Trying to wrap it in seven-worded verse, I strive, so these two marvels may together come alive.
Some like a cavern's mouth, deep and vast and wide, or like a tower's terrace, steep and lofty in its pride.
Some like Incense Mountain thrust as a censer high, or like a brush-rack laid across a desk nearby.
Some shield like heavy curtains, layered thick and tight, some spread like great banners, broad and bold in sight.
Some sheer as lofty battlements, pared sharp and clean, some dense as swords and blades, with piercing edges keen.
Some like banana leaves with slanting veins outspread, some like lotus petals piled, one upon another's head.
Some like a monk's shaved pate, freshly cleansed and bare, some like unkempt loose hair, wild beyond compare.
Some, peeling, turn to withered pine trunks' rugged form, some carved like ancient seal script, weathering the storm.
Some ax-wounded, their scars in chaos lie, some saw-cut, with fine cracks that catch the eye.
Some like autumn melons split in quarters four, some like steamed buns cracked in a cross, and nothing more.
Some like white salt floating as frost on the ground, some like red clouds scattering brocade all around.
Some like treasured hoards of jewels, rare and bright, some like heaps from an iron forge, discarded from sight.
Some pile ten thousand blocks, yet never seem to fall, some hang by a single hair, poised to drop at call.
Some flying steps let one touch heaven high above, some broken cliffs leave not a spot to stand, by love.
Some hollow like the dens of fox or hare, some deep like hidden lairs of dragon or snake's lair.
Some neat as yamen guards in ordered row, some tousled like twin buns on a maiden's brow.
Some bright as sunlight, pure as jade's clear sheen, some hazy as blue clouds, misty and serene.
Some like a wasp's slim waist, some like a toad's wide lip, some like an ox's head, some like a horse's hip.
Some like a phoenix soaring, some like a simurgh in flight, some like a cat crouched low, some like a sheep kneeling upright.
Some like a drum laid flat, some like a tray held high, some like a pendant banner, some like a leaning canopy.
Some like a lonely pagoda, some like an arching bridge, some like a standing screen, some like a wall's sheer ridge.
Some stir the sleeping whale's surging tide, where August's billows rage and never subside.
Some send down flying rainbows of waterfall, where snow-white cascades gleam through seasons, beyond all.
Some like brave soldiers marching in the night, in tens and fives, crowding and blocking the light.
Some like spring outings of the drunk, in twos and threes, pulling and dragging with unsteady ease.
So strange, so varied, endless to portray; a rough account may hint what words cannot convey.
A hundred poems need a banished immortal's art; one stone defies a master painter's skill and heart.
Then, how detached and free the spirit stands, for months, the soul so clear, untouched by dreamland's strands.
What use the weak waters or Penglai's fairy shore? Could lonely banks or fallen cliffs offer more?
By nature aloof, I shun both marriage and career; my idle heart finds solace in mountains here.
I crave the pure scene to broaden mind and breast, yet still need lengthy words to carve within my chest.
Though chaff and husks are vile, the starving eat their fill; though earth and charcoal tasteless, the sick crave them still.
All things in the end return to emptiness; yet if one thing remains, there lingers weariness.
I've heard of Han Yu south of the hills, they say, who falls short of Du Fu's northern march, in sway.
Debates on public matters—what can they rely? Between 'yes' and 'no,' how vast the distance lie?
The monk's koan holds endless talk, no rest; the Vimalakirti's dharma gate allows no protest.
Zhao Wen's unplayed lute knows no loss or gain; I beg the master to explain this truth plain.