How grand the sight of Quanzhou's southern town!
Stone cliffs its feet, the river serves as moat.
I cross the river, riding, looking down,
Through hazy miasmic fog that soaks my coat.
Winding past rapids, on the stream we go,
A small boat floating, hull of tung-wood made.
Midway, a storm of rain and sudden snow—
The boatman loses his swift-plying blade.
Rain pelts the mountain path, the torrents pour,
The jagged rocks like blades and halberds stand.
My horse's hooves twist, finding no way before,
Its tiger's strength is vain on this rough land.
Where earth and road run out, the journey's done,
A lofty green peak bars the way ahead.
Lifting my robe, with staff, the steep I won,
Ten steps, nine glances—gibbons' fears I dread.
Changsha lies low, in hundreds of folds deep,
Its ridged back like a monstrous whale's coiled form.
The horse grows thin, the traveler's strength asleep,
The wilds stretch wide beneath the wind's fierce storm.
At dusk I seek a lodge to drive damp's blight,
Split firewood, boil the pot with village brew.
One sip—so sour and harsh, it's hard to swallow right,
A wine so poor, it would shame clerks I knew.
Through Hunan's eight prefectures I have passed,
To see the truth in governance, not shun the task.
My talent scant, my nature slothful, fast
Things fall undone—when will South Hill greet my thatch?
Clear breeze, bright moon are my three friends so true,
Mountain apes, wild cranes—two nobles join the view.
The river's spring water, clear as grapes' pure hue,
Amid reed blooms that stretch, fishing boats sleep through.