Newly planted green bamboo, so lush and keen,
Seems joyfully aware, as if it could feel.
In shade, its leaves unfold like canopies serene,
The breeze hums through it, music soft and real.
Fortunate to face a master free and refined,
And rooted in a land both broad and kind.
Two years serving here, an official's stay,
Yet not a single day could I forget this way.
Its joints are sparse yet dense, a structured grace,
Crossing stems stand tall, some lean with gentle pace.
Growing in clusters, they keep friendship near,
Standing alone, they hold themselves quite dear.
Where they grow long, moss begins to wear,
Looking closer, dew also clings there.
Like a phoenix tilting wings in a fleeting glance,
Or a snake that sheds, leaving but skin's chance.
Do not cut them down as soldiers in a row,
Keep them for staffs, on which the aged may go.
Frost and snow may soon assail with might,
But rain and dew have nourished them first, so bright.
At first they stood level with the frame, so neat,
Then, startlingly, they gradually passed the fence's beat.
Hollow within, following nature's call,
Firm without, a gift from heaven for all.
Though few per acre, as some might declare,
To form a grove is not a hope too rare.
When temple mounds need timber, they'll be sought,
No need to labor with arrow-feathers wrought.
A magpie-tail crown may yet be made,
A phoenix chick's meal on them could be laid.
Brushing clouds, they think of cypress joy,
Filling fields, they laugh at orchid's decay.
According to the land, old texts hold them dear,
This famed garden is where they should appear.
Though hard to match the flutes of ancient tone,
They won't learn the songs of vulgar zone.
Since allowed near the study desk, so close,
Why refuse to stand by the courtyard's walls?
More care and diligent love they yet require,
For usefulness will come in time, higher.