Six kings lost their states, all lands returned to one,
The Qin emperor carved his southern tour stele in the east.
The script evolved from ancient forms, with changes done,
Its fame vied with Cang Jie's, racing like a beast.
He claimed his deeds were worthy of songs and praise,
But the common folk were foolish, lost in a daze.
Why did the sea god alone defy his command?
Winds and waves blocked the way, coiling dragons on the sand.
Ministers flattered, elixirs far from hand,
Life and death, order and chaos, split on either strand.
Mountain spirits could not guard the stele's trace,
Its fragments served as props for a turtle's resting place.
Hills and valleys remain, but ages shift and change,
Eyes and ears are both deceived by stories strange.
Only paper copies linger in the human sphere,
A stench through millennia, on southeastern cliffs severe.
I hear Mount Qinwang stands the loftiest and grand,
Yet the city views are not as they once were planned.
What mountain lies forty li from the county town?
It matches records, mighty and renown.
The many peaks are like descendants in a line,
Ancient trees have changed their dragon-branch design.
Pointing east as west is not so odd a feat,
Elders pass down tales from childhood, incomplete.
Like the Jade and Silk Assembly on Mount Tu,
Lost to time, too vague to construe.
Magistrate Liang, young in hermit-official years,
Like a budding young stag, with budding antlers.
With provisions and wine, he sought relics old,
His air detached, as if a leisurely post he held.
Suddenly he heard of a stone slab on the peak,
Small seal script—could it be by Master Li's technique?
Pushing through thorns, scolding tigers and rhinos fierce,
Leaning on his staff, he tapped the mountain's pierce.
Blurred and worn, could any writing still persist?
This object witnessed Qin's chaos and desist.
Back then, his might shook all beneath the sky,
No word of cruel poison, just people's sigh.
Where his carriage went became a place of blade and saw,
What time had sacred peaks for ritual law?
The passes of Guanzhong, strongholds oft betrayed,
Reckoned cycles, billions of years displayed.
Ruler and ministers deemed themselves sage and wise,
No critical dissent to criticize.
How could traces predict a hundred ages hence?
Woodcutters and cowherds laugh, their jaws in suspense.
Rise and fall in a breath, three sighs I heave,
Clapping hands, I read the Grand Historian's leave.
Even if jade chopstick strokes in script remained,
Overblown praise would be by the world disdained.
Had he known that metal and stone cannot endure,
The chancellor might regret burning books, for sure.