I come and climb the Hall of Stone Classics,
Followed by students pacing through the side corridors.
The students, reading classics, hair half turned white,
When asked from start to end, clamp their mouths shut.
I heard these classics once were in the central capital,
The clerk's forefathers were the ones who carved the script.
In recent turmoil, they were lost and scattered,
Only copybooks could pass them down to Shu's land.
The Shu king, a usurper, had them cleaned for show,
Yet these alone were taken from the glorious age.
He had them locked with heavy bolts and guarded doors,
Protected by high walls and deep, secluded halls.
Placed in the school, was it without intent?
Not just to preserve the gaps like 'Summer Five'.
A bright mirror opened wide to tell fair from foul,
A great bell struck in time to tune the pitch and tone.
Later youths no longer toil with ink and brush,
But cling to dead vines and paper till they die.
Pronunciation follows whim, like baseless rainbows,
Strokes and dots go wrong as fish confused with Lu.
Sun and moon in empty sky cast light in vain,
Blind customs cheat each other, none can see.
Though stone classics are ancient, what can they do?
Men vie to pass the new, not the old.
Step by step, who would even turn an eye to look?
Moss seals, lichen strips, propped up with strain.
Hard engravings barely escape the bookworm's feast,
Narrow paths compete to house the fox and rat.
If someone here from Zou should ask of this,
Ask for the stone classics, who is their master?
I recall the knocking, the scolding and the shouts,
How many times along the wall, hunched in praise.
Thudding, tapping, hidden are the golden mallets,
Ears deafened by the scatter of hail-like drops.
Wax-smoked, ink-stained, linked into scrolls,
Jade rods, brocade bindings, bundled like pestles.
Was there nothing to flatter power and wealth?
A few sheets barely worth a token rank.
What you have gained is truly insignificant,
How then can I find relief from this distress?
One mallet strike breeds but a single error,
Errors reach thousands, who can count them all?
This is the stone classics' greatest harm,
Even with ghosts and gods, who could ward it off?
I recall once serving as an erudite,
In First Excellence Hall, we walked in steps.
Knowing in heart this was no worldly book,
Like Milky Way, majestic, walls a hundred folds.
Vast the imperial domain has room to spare,
How can we let stone classics stay outside?
We ought to sail down boats through Qutang Gorge,
Fly up to three mountains as if winged.
Silk errors darken bells and tripods alike,
Should Heaven's crack be left without a mend?
Majestic Jade Emperor's hall at the center,
East and west of He and Luo, dragons and tigers flank.
Though this culture lies in rise and fall,
Since the Emperor wills, Heaven too consents.
Writing this poem, I need not rival Han Yu,
But in seal script, perhaps approach the Stone Drums.