How vast the waters of the Western River flow!
Through rugged Ganshi rocks they twist and turn below.
Their lingering waves, though checked, still surge with hidden might;
Their rushing torrents clash and roar in ceaseless fight.
Sometimes at night I climb the Tengwang Tower high,
Where moonlight bathes the silken stream, no speck draws nigh.
To north lie Yanglan, Zuoli, as tales relate,
Where waves rise windless, echoing an ancient fate.
The aged dragon, weary of his deep abode,
Slithers in stealth, a sight that stirs a fearful load.
Before libations poured and prayers to dragons said,
A radiant, towering form in five-hued splendor spread.
Then suddenly it dives a thousand fathoms deep,
Cleaving the hundred-mile surface, secrets keep.
All traces vanish, none can tell its whereabouts,
Save hail and rain that come with thunder's angry shouts.
A thousand wonders, myriad changes—just a play,
Should one lament the drowned, swept heedlessly away?
To treat men's lives like ants, is that not light and vain?
Not mountains' fall alone, but greater ruin's gain.
What matter then the shrimp and fish, a paltry breed?
Sated, one finds their stench taints every cup and mead.
Is it not grand and pleasing to both eye and ear?
Why cling to this bare corner, void and full of fear?
An earthen basin leaks, its scant water runs low,
On shores long soaked by rain, the moss begins to grow.
The swimming fish, not an inch long, flip to and fro,
Buried in mud, sun-scorched, their gills in anguish glow.
Truly, the fish in such cramped plight are ill-bestowed,
Yet I, who could break free, still linger on this road.