Nanqiao, an ancient fine commandery, / Rich with scenic climbs on all sides near.
At dawn I climb the northern plateau's height, / And gaze back on the Wo River's shade.
They say the Prince of Wei in days of yore / Built here a lofty palace on the hill.
That tale is distant, lost in ancient lore, / Yet this old terrace stands deserted still.
A perilous pavilion crowns the peak, / With long woods stretching at its back and side.
This month, the summer heat is at its peak, / Autumn's approach cannot yet turn the tide.
Between the earth and sky, a line so clear, / The doors and windows lonely, cold, austere.
Cool breezes sweep across the spacious seat, / At times we pour a cup of turbid wine.
Our rounded songs like strings of pearls complete, / Our lovely lines with jade-like tones combine.
Though lacking pipes and strings of music's art, / The joy lies in a contented heart.
Mid-feast we leave the steep steps, going down, / To float in boats and seek the quiet scene.
We part the weeds where hidden clams are found, / Turn oars and scatter waterfowl between.
The long shore's grass in unbroken line extends, / The winding wall shows trees that dense and deep.
Sand patterns and the water's light it sends, / In floating, shimmering rays that softly creep.
The swimming fish, too many to be told, / Are fine as scattered needles, manifold.
I look around—all colors still and mute, / And hear but nature's sounds, the absolute.
I envy fish and birds their simple way, / To fly in clouds or in deep waters stay.
Where is the man aloof from worldly strife, / Unswayed by fashion's fleeting tides of life?
Let's cast off fetters, go hand in hand, / And sit by clear streams, fishing-rod in hand.
Make water-shields my robe, a garment fair, / And stitch sweet orchids in my garment's wear.
Sing of the ways of ancient, virtuous reign, / And set my ease to zither strings' refrain.
If life could ever be so pure and free, / Why need official cap and sash for me?