Looking up, the mountain appears blurred and faint,
Looking down, the mountain stands distinct and quaint.
Seeing the low but not the high,
This regret connects now and days gone by.
Viewers laugh and say,
The painter used no force, no way.
How could they know the painter's heart alone is bitter?
How many in this fleeting world truly know what's fitter?
Look at the white silk flying free,
Its origin unseen, where could it be?
I suspect from the ninth heaven's height,
It plunges down, gushing with all its might.
In June, when no wind stirs the air,
Great heat melts metal and stone with glare.
Yet this scene alone is cool and clear,
Like flying snow upon the stone wall here.
Is this the Milky Way overturned,
Its remnant streams into the void's blue burned?
Or is it the Dragon Gate burst,
Pouring vast waves to the earth's ends dispersed?
Only then I know the painter's mind,
Not just what the eyes can find.
Above the mountain, mountains rise once more,
Scarce a foot from heaven's door.
Red cliffs and emerald peaks so steep,
Where groups of immortals roam and sleep.
Clouds and mists cannot reach that place,
Sun and stars rest on the mat with grace.
Sweet dew bathes plants and trees,
Nectar springs from rock crevices.
What falls into the human sphere,
Is but a trickle, thin and sheer.
Understanding painting is not my skill,
Yet through the painting, sorrows fill.
The sage's meaning beyond words,
Cannot on paper be conferred.
Thus, those who explicate a song,
Must seek the intent all along.
If only I could find a mountain viewer beyond the art,
To probe the truth within the book, and both take part.