From the southwest, Zhang and Gong rivers come, / Their silver waves surge white against the sky.
The swelling Yanglan spreads its flood so wide, / As if a giant's belly were split open.
This mountain stands afar, in mutual gaze, / How many years has it been firm and vast?
How high the sea wind blows, relentless, strong, / It blows down from the peak of Penglai Isle.
Its floating roots embrace the primal breath, / And cast their shadows by the bright sun's side.
Like thirsty Kuafu racing towards the sun, / With strides immense, his heels will never turn.
Like stately ministers of law upright, / They stand before the Son of Heaven's throne.
Like spiral shells from Buddha's lofty knot, / Or green calyxes holding autumn lotus.
A hairpin made of glass, a thousand feet, / Suddenly joins with sheets of crystal ice.
The rain drums on the cliff's deep hollow core, / While sails are hung beyond the misty shore.
The crane-drawn carriage never turns back home, / Leaving behind the fields of purple herbs.
The Incense Burner Peak first vies in might, / While Falling Star is but a fist of stone.
It rises fair from Cangwu's cloudy heights, / Its splendor shines near Yi and Zhen's star paths.
Above, it peers into the boundless, deep, and layered skies; / Below, it rules the vast, unfathomable, heavy seas.
Vines and pines reach heaven, aged by years; / Clear waves with foam, where fish and dragons idle.
A deity resides within this place, / Who watches coldly boats that come and go.
The common folk declare it is a maid, / Who came here with her tassels flowing free.
With fragrant unguents mixed with silks and gauze, / And geese and pigs presented as fine fare.
They even take 'solitary' for 'aunt', / A study shows no basis for this claim.
How pitiful, this vulgar love for strange! / Such words are truly wild and far from truth.
A god cannot be falsely thus described, / How can one view it as a maiden pure?
My words, I hope, are not without some ground; / Else, this peak vies with Wangfu and Nüji in vain.