In the mountains, who was close to see me then?
The green hills faced me, sharing smiles and frowns.
I led springs, nurtured bamboo, made them friends,
Wandering carefree, unaware winter turned to spring.
Three years we gazed, never tiring of the sight,
Voice and laughter, unchanged though time passed.
Though not widely learned nor bluntly honest,
Upright and无愧, like the virtue of Qin Zhang.
Already equating things and self as one,
Truly absorbed, forgetting my own form.
Apart from the crowd, living in seclusion so long,
Once like shadow and body, now like stars apart.
Forced to trust the lute to convey the breeze's charm,
Wishing to use fine brush to capture the spirit's form.
The silk-robed envoy, a gentleman of old,
A heavenly sphere, great teachings, treasures of the east hall.
Why long hold the tally, persuading Shu?
Mounting the carriage, grasping reins, toiling to soothe.
Now come to the hall, lodging a quiet appreciation,
Not for jackals and tigers to bury both wheels.
Serenely drinking alone, facing three friends,
Further inviting wind and moon as honored guests.
Xie Tiao, forgetting form, allowed entry to the room,
Li Bai, facing his shadow, made three persons.
I send word to the Five Worthies in the hills,
Virtue does not stand alone; surely it will have neighbors.
Vast and empty, a thousand miles, over ten years,
Then met a kindly glance, bent and then extended.
Bo Yi and Shu Qi, two starved old men of Western Zhou,
Zhan Qin, one dismissed minister of Eastern Lu.
Raised high by Confucius himself,
Otherwise buried and lost in the dust.
Have you not seen that single fist-sized stone on Huangmei Ridge?
Its spirit already seems to rival Emei and Min.