Since ancient times I've longed to explore these secluded scenes,
Now at last I can venture deep and free.
The Long River links the lands of Chu and Shu,
Countless streams pour forth toward the southeast.
Converging waters rush like lightning,
The Qian waves gleam a bluish green.
The remaining currents, too fine to count,
Compete in their distant, interwoven might.
Entering the gorge, at first there seems no path,
Then mountains join as if forming a niche.
Winding ways gather vast, boundless waters,
Constricted, they shrink into deep pools.
The wind passing through is like breathing,
Clouds rising seem to exhale and inhale.
Cliffs fall with a rustling whisper,
Dangling vines hang lush and green.
Cold emerald hues adorn bamboo on cliffs,
Lone stone southernwood stands solitary.
Flying springs scatter like chaotic snow,
Bizarre rocks dart like startled steeds.
The deepest ravines know their own depths,
Suddenly, two or three wood-gathering boys appear.
By chance, a town emerges where smoke rises,
Sandy banks allow a basket boat to ply.
Wild garrisons mark desolate border counties,
Lords here hold ancient titles of nobility.
Office drums sound at dusk, ending the day's work,
Hosts offer frost-ripened tangerines to guests.
I hear of the yellow essence herb,
Growing in clusters like green jade hairpins.
All should suffice for food and drink,
Yet no Peng or Dan—immortals—are seen.
The climate stays warm even in winter,
The Milky Way is mirrored deep at midnight.
Remnant folk mourn the lost kingdoms of Chang and Yan,
Old customs persist in fishing and sericulture.
Plank houses mostly lack tiles,
Cliff dwellings are narrow as hermit cells.
Gathering firewood often means braving danger,
Gained rice never fills the earthen jar.
I sigh at how crude life here is,
Yet they toil without self-reproach.
A leaf-like boat lightly journeys upstream,
Great waves, long familiar, hold no fear.
Eyes meet, alert but wordless,
Guttural sounds, no conversation shared.
How can one dwell in this barbaric wild?
Its deep seclusion truly is hard to bear.
Alone I admire the solitary perching falcon,
Soaring high above the hundred-foot mist.
Sweeping across the sky, it seems content,
Flying far, as if free from greed.
Beating wings, it roams the heavens,
Heedless of sparrows and quails below.
The world is sick with worldly toil,
How can I endure such confinement?
I fully understand the charm of woods and springs,
Yet most are drunk on wealth and rank.
Behold the joy of the flying bird,
With a content heart, it retreats on high.