The Qutang Gorge winds to its end,
The Wu Gorge's peaks rise steep and grand.
The linked summits, somewhat strange in trend,
Their stone hues shift to a verdant brand.
Heaven's craft with divine skill does blend,
Gradually shaping wonders planned.
The rugged force runs deep and vast,
But its structured intent is not yet cast.
No time to blink for the onlooker's eye,
Each step leads to depths where mysteries lie.
Grey cliffs suddenly press, drawing nigh,
Sheer walls stir a chill that makes one sigh.
Looking up at eight or nine crests high,
Their keen vigor pierces the azure sky.
The heavens sway in boundless height,
The river boils in furious might.
Aloof and towering, they yield to none,
Straight and bold, their daring is second to none.
Climbing, I see the temple of the divine,
And rest seated on a stone, by design.
Across the river waves, jagged peaks align,
I ask the temple attendants, line by line.
Gazing afar at the Goddess Stone, so fine,
Graceful indeed, a form that does outshine.
Looking down, I see her slanting hairline,
Trailing clouds, playing with her long train's shine.
The human heart changes with what it sees,
From afar, it senses meanings that tease.
A rustic elder laughs beside me, at ease,
"In youth, I came here often, if you please.
I went up following the apes' trapeze,
And returned trying ropes with expertise."
Stone shoots lean on a solitary peak,
Jutting out, unlike any, unique.
The world loves tales of spirits and freak,
Their stories startle children, mild and meek.
The Chu Rhapsody spreads a myth, so to speak,
How can gods and immortals truly exist? Weak!
Then I ask of the bamboo that sweeps the altar clean,
They say it still stands, as it has been.
Its emerald leaves hang down in a screen,
Swaying like a green phoenix's tail, serene.
When the wind comes, they bow or rise, keen,
As if by a divine force they're seen.
At the summit, three steles can be gleaned,
With ancient seal script, twisted and screened.
An old man cannot read what they mean,
By chance he saw, but forgot the scene.
Exploring to the ridge's back, lean,
I gather boxwood seeds, evergreen.
Boxwood grows on stone, a hardy sheen,
Its grain firm and fine, like brocade, I ween.
Greedy, I press on without a care,
Down thousand-fathom gorges, I dangle in air.
High mountains keep tigers and wolves rare,
Going deep, I feel safe, without a scare.
Dim and dense, grass and trees cluster there,
Lush and glossy, clouds and mist debonair.
A stone crevice holds a spring, broad and fair,
Sweet and smooth as flowing marrow, beyond compare.
All morning I wash and rinse without a care,
Its chill clears my heart and stomach, pure and bare.
I hang washed clothes on a treetop, high in the air,
And sharpen my axe on the stone's nose, with flair.
Wandering till clouds and sun declare the day's end near,
Thoughts of returning to the city appear.
Thirty years have passed since I was last here,
Aged and weary, my strength lacks cheer.
The trees I felled back then, now reappear,
Their new shoots thick as arms, loud and clear.
Hearing the old man's tale, I sigh all day, sincere,
"Immortals may exist, that much is clear,
But the hard part is forgetting power and career.
Why cling to poverty and lowly state, my dear?
Cast them off like worn-out shoes, without fear.
Alas, if you do not return from here,
Without food, you might still not die, it's queer."