The snow of winter's end falls from the north,
Across ten thousand miles, the clouds are one.
The vast sky returns to its pristine hue,
The long road loses its dark, arduous trace.
Dancing wildly, it dips and rises still,
Blown by the wind, it leaves and comes again.
Gradually, it adds to the height of things,
Seeping through cracks, it idly finds its way.
Salt flats are piled with drifts like hoary brine,
Jade Pass is heaped with sand-like swirling flakes.
Furious waves seem to shake the sea in rage,
Layered peaks appear to move the mountains' seat.
Joyful for its thickness, still it piles high,
Hating its excess, how can one erase?
Banners and flags lie furled across the plain,
Dust and grime closely choke the city's gates.
It dots the woods, confounding fragrant blooms,
Adorns the stones, mottling the moss with white.
A slanting door leaves a foot-long sword behind,
A broken window holds a chain of rings.
Jade tokens gather, robes and sashes meet,
The village lanes distribute rice and grain.
The bamboo, bent, in the end will not break,
The tall tree, laden, now can be climbed.
Pure silk is cut to make a singing fan,
Bright jewels tower on the coiled-up hair.
Planning strategy, one thinks of clever schemes,
Speaking strangely, one rebukes the crafty gods.
The frozen brush cannot be grasped at all,
The stiffened bow is hard to bend and draw.
Wild geese cry, lost like the bewildered sparrows,
Dragons lie dormant, fish are left alone.
The power of the pit is stern and fierce,
The force of yang's first sprout is weak and frail.
The gloom brings sorrow for the hastening fate,
Warmth is lamented as the time grows scant.
Borders connect the soils of three domains,
Muddy roads reach the tribes of a hundred lands.
The rooster at dusk still crows with proud clucks,
The dog at night goes about with quiet sniffs.
A lamed foot injures the noble steed,
Losing the flock, the silver pheasant strays.
Creating writings, one recalls ancient scripts,
Debating skill, one defers to craftsmen wise.
A mosquito's wing soars in empty curves,
Fungus flowers rise from wild reeds and grass.
The fence allows the moon's soul to pass through,
The palace steps cut off the mortal world.
Moved by things, one's nose alone turns sour,
Clearing the mind, would one's face sweat with shame?
Exposed skin grows cold and breaks in rash,
A pointing finger freezes into a hook.
Through eaves' cracks, the wind howls with fierce strength,
In the stove, the fire's embers glow deep red.
The hunter, wild at heart, recalls the desert frontier,
The fisherman, joyful, remembers the river bend.
Drinking done, the dried gourd is cast aside,
The grindstone worn, the ancient iron stays stubborn.
Do not mock the straw sandals of the eastern gate,
Be not ashamed of the half-rank official's sash.