Guo Mountain lies thousands of miles away,
Its stones are heavy, hard to bear away.
By cart or boat, their weight is a sore plight,
Even pots and jars are left, they're too heavy to carry.
Were it not for the world's love of the strange and rare,
Who would haul them from afar with such care?
Moreover, the Guo folk treasure them deep,
One piece they wouldn't trade for a thousand jades fine.
Spread to the Central Plains, praised far and wide,
Hosts show guests in wonder, guests beg for a line.
The world scorns the true, prizes the fake,
Viewers' delight stays on the skin, for appearance's sake.
Strong trunks and fair boughs cast long shade in the wood,
Arrayed full in the wild, who looks as they should?
I, as a guest, once saw one by chance,
Lovely indeed, small and odd in its stance.
At first I thought it autumn waves, clear and bright,
Fish eggs transformed to dragons, a monstrous sight.
Scales, whiskers, claws, and horns still small and fine,
Only see them winding, in crisscross design.
Or like a foot of silk, spread out and bare,
Drunken brush painting beards and mustaches there.
How can the stone be not of nature's art,
Still weak, like branches yielding to the wind's part?
On a high tower at dawn, leaning on autumn old,
Mist and rain blend, in veils they unfold.
Tall woods faintly emerge at the sky's rim,
Drunken eyes gaze far into the dim, vast and grim.
Or else, whose ancient painting, old and torn,
A fragment left, by chance here borne?
Suppose a man's hand daubed with dots and lines,
Still fear clumsiness or skill makes flawed signs.
How can the stone's veins grow on their own?
How to dispel the doubts the world has sown?
Pile high gold, seek arguments far and nigh,
Ten thousand mouths sharp as whetstones, keen to try.
Some say South Mountain breeds giant freaks,
Who wish to shift heaven and earth with their techniques.
First steal the sun and moon to the cliff's base,
Then take plants and trees to shade the place.
Heaven, angry, fears their work will succeed,
Six Ding gods wield axes, clouds they hew and cleave.
The world seizes this chance to split and share,
Forge fragments, trade for wealth and fare.
To this day, on Guo Mountain nights with storm,
Trees and stones wail, ghosts and spirits mourn.
Others say spring breath enters the mountain's bone,
Wanting from stone to sprout weeds, all on its own.
Roots, stems, buds not yet out, they meet their fate,
Suddenly the craftsman's hand destroys, seals their state.
Many claim old pines have turned to stone,
This surely severs roots, leaves them alone.
Also say ghostly hands can paint as well,
Often in stone rooms make screens, stories tell.
Well know strange things are vast, hard to confine,
Who can clarify right and wrong in this design?
City foxes old can change to man or maid,
Sea mirages from mouths吹 towers and arcades.
In the world such things naturally exist,
Why probe曲折 to the end, and insist?
Ponder细, this screen is of no use in the end,
Stone unfit for pillar, wood can't defend.
Merely its grain has a slight variation,
Gathering blind talk, building deception's foundation.
Hush! I'll close my mouth, no more debate,
To those who love it, don't mock my state.