The hills and streams of Ziyang are fair,
A mighty bulwark for the royal lair.
Mulberry groves like clouds in masses stand;
Pear and jujube trees form a starry band.
For fourteen years now, since that time has passed,
The grace of Han's decrees has not held fast.
Thus on the fields, the farmers' lot is cast
In endless folds of hardship, sour and vast.
The lord came from the region of Jiangxi,
To break through perils, setting hardships free.
Every village basks in spring breeze's delight;
Every household enjoys autumn moon bright.
Moreover, the lord, a scholar old and wise,
From deep sources makes waves of learning rise.
In prose, he follows Han and Meng's great line;
In verse, he leads before Zhang and Fan's design.
I, humble man, once loved to study deep,
No truth I would not strive to grasp and keep.
Wind and thunder churned within my gut and soul;
Sun and moon hung from my heart, a shining whole.
The universe I held within my hand;
Ghosts and gods revealed at my brush's command.
My body suffered from loathing evil's blight;
My family was spent on arguing right.
Heaven's gate is guarded by nine tigers grim;
I returned to lie in ox-hide coat, so dim.
I swore to wipe this foe out, to restore
Heaven's proper view, as it was before.
Yu Rang wished to hasten to Zhao's state;
Nie Zheng was set to enter Han's gate.
The dagger flashed like lightning, swift and keen;
The iron hammer struck with thunder's sheen.
The world lacks Bo Ya's hand, so skilled and rare;
Zhong Zi can only heave a sigh of care.
The world lacks Zi Qi's ear, attuned and true;
Bo Ya's tears fall in vain, with none to view.
In life, joy lies in knowing one another;
Yet such mutual knowing is hard to discover.
Not knowing, we rise like Hu and Yue, apart;
Knowing, we share the winter's chill in heart.
Since the lord's arrival, I have wished to know
A phoenix rare, like Confucius long ago.
The autumn wind stirs up the heart's own breath;
The northern clouds aid the ague's stealthy death.
Now with the spring sun's warmth, so soft and mild,
Though ill, I still move on, a staggering child.
You wonder why I come so late, my friend;
For me you stay at the city gate, to attend.
What does the lord seek in meeting me here?
Like pearls poured out, a moon-bright sphere.
What do I seek in meeting the lord, pray?
To stretch this coiling dragon out, to say:
The turtle's shell grows harder with old age;
The crane's crown turns more crimson, sage by sage.
I hate that I myself have grown so old,
Only to weigh down bluntness, stubborn, cold.
I always think of Master Yu Chuan then,
For seeking patronage is not for noble men.
The mountain does not nurture Bo Ling's fame;
Nor does Bo Ling the mountain's nurture blame.