Mount Lu towers thousands of feet high,
A niche of cloud nestles in its midst.
A recluse, serene and far from the world,
Thatched a hut, making it his hermitage.
I once visited his secluded abode,
Venturing deep into the tranquil realm.
The mountain brims with orchids and fragrant herbs,
Pines and cedars line the valley's mouth.
Further, a garden of medicinal plots,
Where chrysanthemums, wolfberries, and licorice grow.
They heal ailments and prolong one's years,
Surpassing even the famed Chrysanthemum Water Spring.
A hundred years, not so long a time,
Yet the streamside grasses grow lush and wild.
I dwell north of the northern stream,
You reside south of the southern stream.
By chance, we become neighbors side by side,
Who can fathom the wonder of this bond?
Since ancient times, among chrysanthemum lovers,
Only Tao Qian of Jin is ever praised.
When he moved to the Southern Village back then,
What kept him from the northern lands?
He sought those with pure hearts, he said,
With whom he could share thoughtful conversation.
Why then did he leave it all behind?
My heart cannot fully grasp his reasons.
The eight directions shrouded in lingering clouds,
Everywhere, travelers lose their way.
Better to return now, I say,
And tend these three overgrown garden paths.
In late years, they shall be my constant companions,
With green pines crowning the cliff ahead.
The Tang folk adored the peony's bloom,
A vulgar trend easily intoxicates the crowd.
Preserve these heroes beneath the frost,
Let not the stream feel shame for them.
Through all ages, the Hermit of Jin stands,
Able to make the stubborn grow honest.
Recorded as a man of Chaisang,
The annals' judgment is stern and clear.
I long to question my desk and stool,
While white clouds fill the empty eaves.