At dusk I leave the city gate,
Crossing the clear river bridge, late.
To a monk's dwelling I retire,
Facing the full moon, high and dire.
Lamps out, the cold light seeps within,
Revealing every detail thin.
Long I delay to seek my bed,
Loving the crisp air overhead.
Once lain, I toss and turn all night,
Tormented by the stream's loud plight.
At first cockcrow, the day is born,
Servants report the horses fed at morn.
On the road, I ask of the way ahead—
Seven posts, all desolate and dread.
For five days and nights, on I press,
With scarce a moment's rest or mess.
By palanquin or horseback ride,
On dangerous paths, I must stride.
Sideways through rugged trails I creep,
Gazing up at peaks towering steep.
The winding plank road, thin as thread,
At perilous points fills me with dread.
A single log bridge spans the abyss,
Shaking my feet with fearful abyss.
To tread it without doubt or care,
Would be a reckless, daring affair.
Along the cliff, I watch waves roar,
White as frost and snow, they pour.
Often dizzy, my vision spins,
I dare not look where danger begins.
Sometimes I find a scenic delight,
But more often, shocks and fright.
High peaks jade my pillow, they seem,
Bathed in sunlight, pure and gleam.
Hence the village earns its name,
As local elders can proclaim.
The hut is surrounded by flowing springs,
Their nightly sounds a mournful murmur brings.
I listen to the apes' sad cry,
Under fading stars in a half-lit sky.
The border town draws slowly near,
Mountains like iron cut sheer.
The journey grows more arduous still,
The landscape bleak and chill.
Desolate huts line the roadside bare,
With wooden planks instead of tiles there.
A peasant woman carries her load,
Hunchbacked, her chatter on the road.
At this sight, I sigh with woe,
Missing my distant home, I know.
I travel for my duty's call,
Meetings and schedules, heed them all.
Soon I'll gather the local crowd,
For winter drills, both brave and proud.
Bows at waist, five thousand strong,
Rewards and punishments clear and long.
Eager to see the task complete,
Yet fearing provisions deplete.
Only I dare steal a moment's rest,
To soothe my joints and be my best.
Thus I push to speed my way,
Struggling though weak and worn each day.
To read is to act on what's learned,
Royal affairs must be concerned.
No lofty post have I attained,
Nor heroic efforts gained.
To the world's edge I rush and roam,
A humble envoy far from home.
When will the yearly task be done,
To report beneath the golden sun?
Though I cannot resign my role,
I beg for a post that suits my soul.
To wander near my native place,
And visit graves with gentle grace.
Endless thoughts I cannot quell,
So I write this poem my gloom to dispel.