Spring spreads its vital breath, and beauty blooms where'er it goes.
The land of Min was wild and barren, its mountains and streams held no wonders.
From Qin and Han, it became a prefecture, with sacrifices to Mount Wuyi.
Few scholars rose to office, and tributes sent were sparse and slight.
In late Tang, Master Chang arrived, whose culture left a legacy.
At the dynasty's start, it returned to the map, and warfare grew more rare.
The sage's influence nurtured all, life boundless and vast.
Emperor Renzong strove to rule, the borderlands knew no more whips.
Four towering censors stood, till dusk upon the crimson steps.
Junmori rose from the south, moved by grace, he acted without fail.
Even humble gifts he'd offer, so why not a tribute of tea?
Plants deserve our knowledge; what harm in a lychee guide?
Who'd have thought it'd start a flood, yearly gifts hindering the plow.
In those days, old Su Dongpo wrote a poem lamenting lychees.
His words seemed prophetic, picking tea by Wuyi's stream.
The people's strength is worn so thin, even plants and trees grow frail.
Scholars seeing this, speak out with hearts in pain.
How torrential Min's rivers flow, how lofty Min's mountains rise!
For that one plant's fair bloom, they fear not toil on laddered ships.
Han Yu mourned two birds, and how the world's way has further declined.
I think of the golden age, when worthy scrolls sped by relay.
Ministers watched each other's backs, the emperor sought counsel keen.
Nine in ten homes held books of verse, in three years, edicts reached the earth.
Xuanhe and Jingkang famed for virtue, Yan and Shao built on merit.
Qianchun's Neo-Confucianism praised, great figures arose in time.
But noble culture fades each day, pedantry draws the world's scorn.
In this vast and boundless cosmos, who now holds the guiding rein?
The young lack models to follow, the current's chill cuts to the bone.
Does Heaven itself grow old? Alas, we sink in moral ruin.
The earth's vigor waxes and wanes; when will its turning come?
All flowers bloom in season, but heroes are born out of time.
The spirit may yet revive, but long have our people wearied.
Mount Wuyi, the great recluse's hill, holds teachers for a hundred ages.
If future sages can be awaited, earnestly I leave this verse.