Pure gold emerges from the melting furnace, its brilliance outshining the blazing fire.
Brocade woven, washed in the spring river, dazzles all eyes, leaving them helpless.
Fish and salt are humble things, yet by chance they escape defilement.
Your brothers are virtuous; seeing them, I am astonished by their multitude.
Their writings radiate light, containing depths within their intricate folds.
With doors closed, they are self-sufficient; what need have they to wait for me?
I know the heart of the benevolent seeks only to relieve the poor and hungry.
If we speak of talent or its lack, I deserve to be cast aside like spit.
I recall when I first came west, timidly attending as a guest.
Engaged in debate, mouths racing like chariots, opening and closing, impossible to lock.
Occasionally disputing classical meanings, a tongue of iron, unyielding and unblunted.
Then your lofty writing suddenly descended, like the sun startling the sky to fall.
Dazzled and afraid, I wished to cover my eyes, but no cloth could shroud such light.
At first sight, shock was natural; yet to receive it alone was also worthy of congratulation.
It was like meeting a noble, adorned in embroidered silk, graceful and swaying.
But turning to see my own reflection—a wretched face, poor and bare.
My heart, subdued, grew content; yet sighs of indignation also swelled.
No more striving for lofty heights, but receiving your care with added gratitude.
Your great poem comes again, praising me far beyond my worth.
Having no virtue to commend, this only spreads my shame more widely.
Like feeding a frail man, a bean meal suffices;
If forced to carry stones, a stumble would surely bring disaster.
How can I speak of repaying your heart? Only as the ghost who tied grass in gratitude.