Thirty-six peaks, emerald, towering high,
A cold spring falls, its jade-like sound a mournful sigh.
Cliff flowers and stony paths wind round and round,
Jade railings guard the slender bamboo's green profound.
An old man with snow-white beard bears a purple gourd,
Waving his golden-tasseled whisk from afar, he calls toward.
From rosy conch he pours the wine, a deep and limpid blue,
Leaning on grey rock, he plays his cave-flute, melody true.
A lone crane comes, bearing a decree from the sky,
The old man takes my hand, together we fly.
Soaring aloft, we pass the azure firmament,
Crossing the fierce winds, treading the Yellow Path's ascent.
Towers and pavilions gleam with auspicious light, steep and grand,
Divine tigers guard the gates, stern soldiers stand.
The double vermilion doors swing slightly ajar,
A spirit officer emerges, greeting from afar.
In crimson robe, holding an axe, he stands on the crimson stair,
The Jade Emperor holds a jade scepter, beyond compare.
Cloud-gongs and wind-zithers play their own harmonies,
Celestial sounds, clear and far, not of mortal realities.
A blue-robed lad beside the Emperor conveys the imperial word,
From the Palace of Literary Splendor, 'Banished Immortal' is heard.
The Banished Immortal looks at me, smiling, and says,
'You should return now, but come back in future days.'
Searching his bosom, he gives me a five-colored brush,
'Treasure it well, take care not to lose it in rush.'
Rich fragrance swirls, obscuring the Emperor's abode,
I bow to the old man, descend the western corridor's road.
My body travels above the sun and moon's course,
Looking down, I see the Dipper marking midnight's force.
Clouds follow each step I take, born with my pace,
Past my ears, only the sound of pine winds I trace.
Awakening, I grasp my brush to record this fine dream,
The moon is bright, the tower drum beats the third watch's theme.