Hard is the road, southeast where land tilts and waters spread vast.
Three rivers, five lakes, the sea so wide, fish and dragons emerge, spirits run wild.
Ten thousand tons overturned with no effort; rivers have tides, streams have shoals.
Qiantang's tide crest levels Yue's mountains; riding the tide, life hangs on a breath.
Up the shoal, poling gains inches grudgingly; down the shoal, a slight slip plunges into rapids.
My route by river seems somewhat safer, but countless weirs make it hard and blocked.
Two oxen strain, exhausted from climbing; an inch away feels like a heavy pass.
Hard is the road, southwest perils need no telling.
One mountain has a hundred and eight turns; monkeys wishing to climb despair and return.
If you fear walking and want to board a boat, I fear your courage will fail in the whirlpools.
Heading north from here through the Central Plains, Kunlun's torrents pour turbulent waves.
Swallowing several boats each year is common; tiny vessels, alas, hard to keep whole.
Land travel through Xiao and Han, carts cannot advance; not to mention the coiled sheep-gut paths.
The rest, Yu's traversed mountains and rivers, deep without bottom, high scraping the sky.
Hard is the road, such as this; better close the door and lean on the table.
Before the door, ground level as a whetstone; no worries then of mounds rising up.