At eighty, the mind grows dim and weary,
Yet you, old sir, see and hear with clarity.
Others at this age are frail and tired,
But you, old sir, surpass your youthful energy.
Vigorous in age, busy in leisure,
With sutras and elixirs, a life of pleasure.
A thousand scrolls of golden script explore the truth's deep core,
The Seven Chapters of Red City discuss sitting in oblivion's lore.
I met you when I was just thirty years old,
And you, old sir, were nearly sixty, I'm told.
For thirty years we've come and gone, a bond that's held so true,
Your body still, your spirit calm, a peace that shines right through.
In quiet observation, no root or bottom could I see,
I thought your heart was simply as it appeared to me.
Little did I know your skill held depths untold,
Your brush reveals a world of wonders, a vision to behold.
The monk of Turtle Stream, in ancient robes arrayed,
His heart renounces fame and gain, in quietude he's stayed.
Morning bell and rice bowl, by a half-lit stove he's found,
Noon sun and teacup, a game of chess goes round.
One day we spoke before a little window, clear and bright,
He drew a slender scroll, wrapped in mist and light.
Said this was painted by Old Lu's own hand,
Depicting Wang Lang's boat to visit Dai, upon the river's sand.
The next day, seeing me, he smiled and softly said,
'My painting skills are leaked, alas, to my black-robed friend.'
There is another realm, a heaven in a pot,
If you're a true connoisseur, this secret shall be your lot.
A light scroll, just a few feet long, unrolled before my eyes,
Strange peaks rise sharply through the misty skies.
Within, a myriad of fine details take form,
Try to grasp them, and chant a new verse, warm.
First painted: winter woods where roosting birds take flight,
The mountain path grows bright as travelers walk in morning light.
Four monks rush for their meal, in order they proceed,
A man stands at the ferry, on the sandy shore indeed.
One boat lies idle by a rocky shore,
Another halfway crosses the cloud-touching floor.
Two boats: one fishing, one with nets cast wide,
Above, wild geese descend where reed flowers sway with tide.
Two bridges near the mountains turn serene and pure,
A traveler with bamboo staff walks, his step unsure.
Surely this is the old man in crane-feather cloak of yore,
His spirit soaring, braving the cold snow once more.
Mid-slope, a temple's towers gleam with light,
Below, a thatched inn by the sandy shore in sight.
A pagoda's pole stands tall, casting its mountain shade,
Wind-fluttered banners seem to whisper where the monks' talks fade.
Countless scenes compete in strangeness, a wondrous, vibrant fray,
Shrinking the earth, it moves another world into display.
My talent thin, what can I do with such a painting's grace?
I force myself to write, a humble, admiring face.
I've heard of Da Ling wielding his brush with might,
The heavenly gate unopened by the southwest wind's flight.
Craftsmen sought payment with sweet, deceptive word,
Like Wu Qi by Gong Shu's scheme was deterred.
He flicked his sleeves and to his fields returned with ease,
How many now possess such skill as his, pray tell me, please?
Thus I know within his breast, a thousand acres of jade-green sea,
Stems from a family's legacy, worth ten thousand gold, you see.
Old sir, old sir, you have ink to spare,
Don't hesitate to play along when chances are there.