A dark dragon lies dormant in the vast marsh, its age unknown.
Unwilling to bring nourishing rain, it reclines amidst mist and rosy clouds.
The Jade Emperor sought to rouse it, sending six celestial guardians down the deep ravine.
Purple serpents brandished golden lightning, thunderbolts turned the fragrant chariot.
Shaking its mane, it longed to soar, coiling with a fierce, grasping might.
Through divine power, it learned the cicada's molt, stiffening into an old tree's fork.
Great branches reveal scales and claws, rain-eaten, hollow and stained.
Small branches half-rotted and broken, moss and lichen seal their jagged teeth.
Yet life's force, unwilling to be silent, still puts forth a few sparse blossoms.
Though flowers are few, their fragrance is strong; even piled snow should find it hard to hide.
Herdsmen loathe its cracked and withered form; carpenters curse its twisted, dragon-like slant.
Sun and moon pass, from ancient times to now, it alone escapes the axe's blow.
One might call it skill in fleeing the world, preserving its essence, proud in secluded distance.
Who would have known lovers of curiosities, with their eccentric taste, seek out this withered topknot?
Meeting it once in the dense thicket, leaning on my staff, I gasp in surprise.
Carrying a hoe, I dig under the bright moon, transplant it to boast within the lotus temple grounds.
Poetic elders vie to compose lines; the poem's value just begins to clamor.
I, in my old age, have deeper thoughts, silently withholding my praise for you.
I warn you to hide your clumsiness further, take care not to sprout fresh buds.
On a cold cliff, on a withered tree, what use is there to open icy blossoms?
The ancient woodcutter would surely despise you; beg instead to be with a mountain hermit.
I would ride you straight up to the Milky Way, for a thousand years, not counting Zhang Qian's raft.