South of the county, hills and streams, fair and clear,
Heaven and earth forged and molded essence here.
A Tang prefect once toured the county in his day,
Sought out a cave and named it the Cold Pavilion, they say.
Counting fingers, now hundreds of years have passed,
Cliff inscriptions, characters vast, their meaning cast.
Following plank roads clinging to perilous height,
All who come cannot help but shudder with fright.
Three years I've been lost in official records' maze,
Sometimes visiting, leaving lingering amaze.
Entertaining guests, brewing tea, then turning head,
Who knew beside the pavilion a cavern lay spread?
Colleagues from Chengji, upon taking their post,
With skillful minds, began to plan and host.
Thus we know all things follow a destined course,
Heaven's ways, blocked or open, respond to human force.
Gathering workers, with baskets, days they toil,
Suddenly, a spacious brightness ends the turmoil.
At first, like Two Sovereigns chiseling primal haze,
The void arrays sun and stars in its rays.
Or like the Giant Spirit splitting Mount Hua's might,
Valley echoes roar with thunderous light.
The great rock opened, a small grotto appears,
A scene within a pot, true to its spheres.
The cave door's spring wind brushes one's face,
Inside, warm as steam, a tranquil place.
Hanging stalactites seem carved with care,
Sheer cliffs encircle, none leaning there.
Old ladders gone, removing petty men's risk,
New paths made easy, for gentlemen brisk.
By the stream, a square space further widened,
Piling stones, building halls, pillars brightened.
Alas, earth and stone, though senseless and cold,
Once built, attain glory, a tale to be told.
Now the emperor emerges, a great vessel true,
Renewing foundations, cleansing the world anew.
I wish all under heaven free from cold and hunger's plight,
Like this cave, offering shelter and life's light.
No need for flutes to warm the air with sound,
For ages, this name should rightly be renowned.