Jing Mountain's stone holds jade within,
In Chu, none knew its worth to win.
Offered twice, still none would buy,
Hugging the gem, in vain he'd sigh.
One day a master craftsman came,
Then first its wonder earned its fame.
Passed down for centuries as treasure,
Handan gained it in like measure.
Qin men offered cities in exchange,
Zhao's court viewed the deal as strange.
Not to give might mean breaking faith,
To give risked being led to wraith.
Xiangru as envoy went ahead,
Holding the jade, flaws to be read.
Bristling with rage, what did he dare?
Eyeing the pillar, why stand there?
In humble garb, back to Zhao returned,
Boiling cauldrons he never spurned.
Marvelous, ancient men like these,
Closing the book, one sighs with ease.
Right and wrong are fixed for ages,
Success or failure fills but pages.
Heaven made this rare object bright,
A source of trouble, left and right.
Beauty should stay in casket's hold,
To flaunt and sell is far too bold.
He Shi awaited not a price,
Feet cut off—who bears the vice?
Talent weighs the nation's fate,
Can jade alone secure the state?
Xiangru truly tamed the tiger,
Though dead, regret could not be bigger.
Both men left regrets behind,
Confucius truly guides my mind.
A stone from Si River's shore,
Unstained, yet turns to blackness' core.
Upon it, 'Hualin' words appear,
Seems a relic from yesteryear.
The Spring Office loved ancient art,
Records moved with pains to impart.
The owner dared not hold it dear,
Presented it to the jade steps near.
Buried in darkness years went by,
No connoisseur's ear caught its cry.
No wish to gain a chain of towns,
Gain or loss by hair's breadth counts.
Two tales may not compare as one,
But serve to fill this poem done.