On the western hill there is a bird, whose shape resembles a crow.
Its name is Jingwei, and it calls out its own name.
Jingwei fills the sea, never ceasing until it's done.
Asked who it seeks to repay, it says the Emperor's son.
The Emperor's daughter, Wa, went wandering and never returned.
Jingwei seeks for her, not daring to find rest.
The sea's flow does not change, yet you fill it unswayed.
Alas, Jingwei, your resolve is truly pitiable.
In the past I studied books, seeking only the sages.
Exerted myself to follow them, from spring through autumn.
Now in leisure of old age, I examine my learning.
Only with friends of the time, daily honing and polishing.
The words of sages are subtle, my understanding is near.
Drawing near to grasp the subtle, retreating may yet bring progress.
Three years in office, fearing only my faults.
Though others deeply loathe it, you also lack courage.
Gentle are the clouds, swirling are the waters.
You do not return with me, yet claim there is reason.
Pigs and sheep in the pen, attached to their fodder.
When brought to the kitchen, whom then can they blame?
My learning drifts farther, your path grows more distant.
I feel ashamed before Jingwei, with whom shall I dwell?
Jingwei in its flight, need not reach the heavens.
That you fall short of it, how can there be wisdom?
Only to act or not, the choice of fool and wise.
A petty man writes this poem, hoping one may urge a hundred.