Bearing clear and yellow hues, round as a pellet, / Vast as Kunlun, dark and undivided yet.
The hen in spring day rests upon her roost, / Embracing heaven and earth to undergo the forging heat.
Wings and belly, steam arises from within, / At times she turns and treads to intertwine the force.
Drowsy, as if困倦 in broad daylight, / Alert, unsleeping through the midnight hour.
At feeding time, don't wonder if she does not answer the call— / Concentrated, present, yet hard to summon forth.
Have you not seen, when yin and yang are full, transcendence occurs? / In dim恍惚, a wondrous vision comes to birth.
A few sounds through the shell—pure notes are heard; / A single point, suspended胎, sheds its幽暗赞礼.
The hen, accustomed, slowly pecks it open— / Pitiful, the fine and fluffy feathers then appear.
Yet think how life within that shell must be, / Crouching, vitality able to endure and wait.
Who taught them to peck grain and drink water? / Heaven's mechanism moves of itself—no doubt at all.
In threes and twos they swirl around the mother's feet, / Going out and in, north and south, following one another.
Clustered, now many now few, suddenly scattered and distinct; / Swiftly, now first now last, no fixed position holds.
Seizing a moment, quickly try to count—you cannot; / Crisscrossing back and forth, they err as before.
I've heard that in the cycle of rebirth there's little peace; / How could a banished immortal be by laws confined?
Returning from autumn hills, the wine is newly ripe; / Calling the lad to cook the chicken, my composure stays.
To kill or not to kill—do not conjecture; / I beg you, fix your gaze on the cold river by the mountain lodge.