Zhang Zi serves in Fuchang, solitary and alone, with none to befriend.
Guests do not come, old friends are lost and gone.
For long he shuts his door, all day he seals his tongue.
Out, none to roam with; home, none to lean upon.
Who shares my meal? Who drinks my wine with me?
Back home, I face my wife and children; out, I meet servants and men.
I take my carriage out for a ride, and see country lads and old villagers.
My spirit stifled, no communion; my feelings wrapped, unopened.
I stop my ears and blind my eyes, sit cross-legged with sleeves tucked in.
I open books and scrolls, till eyes grow dim and elbows ache.
This weariness turns chronic, beyond the cure of needle or moxa.
Then Zhang Zi cleanses his thoughts and casts off cares.
He sweeps the courtyard and hall, rests head on hand and sleeps.
Dimly as if encountering, a spirit descends to him.
It says: "I truly pity you, alone without a friend.
I have advice to give; listen to me, my son.
Among all worldly men, a hundred fools for one worthy.
This was lamented in ancient times, not only now.
To gain a worthy friend, goodness finds no peer.
If worthies cannot be found, then with fools you may compare.
To befriend the worthy is hard; fortunate if you meet one.
Unlucky to befriend a fool—is that better than none?
Flattering smiles and bending postures, hiding feelings, obscuring truth.
Probing hearts to offer schemes, seizing chances to cast plans.
Mouth says yes, belly no; face sings, back weeps.
Friends like these, indeed are many, very many.
Better not to see them, so eyes stay clear and ears at peace.
I tell you again the truth of a real friend.
Follow my words, and friendship will never be exhausted.
Though men and things differ, they can be friends alike.
I bestow on you a friend, whose name is Mountain.
It dwells at your left and right, to your north it stands.
Steadfast, it will not leave you; serene, it speaks no word.
Spring lush, summer dense; autumn sparse, winter gaunt.
Mist and glow melt into light; wind races, rain pours.
Lone oars sweep across; firm mounds carved with skill.
Proud and lofty, clear and splendid, moist and elegant.
Facing meals, nearing sleep, it enters hall and window.
Performing skills before you, though laboring, it feels no guilt.
The mountain has fine springs, watering your garden oft.
Over rocks they hang in air, clear and cold they rinse.
As if hearing wondrous music, washing worry, bathing grime.
Is this not better than lowly gossip, vulgar talk,
That entering ears adds gloom, sinking into heart stirs trouble?
The mountain has tall bamboos, planted in your garden ground.
Quiet, lovely, bright, and fresh, upright, hollow, straight, and true.
Like those upright men, with rising words and glowing hue.
Soft winds scatter emerald; night moon carves them white.
Is this not better than market boys with dusty faces,
With twisted brows and puffed lips, flattering smiles and empty words,
Skilled at fawning and pleasing, adept at crooked bows?
The mountain has tall trees, standing lofty and firm.
Without a flattering posture, as if facing a noble scholar.
They shield from rain and scorching sun, a shelter for a thousand men.
Gentle breezes stroke them, playing pipes and reeds.
Is this not better than wriggling, rat-like folk,
Cunning girls and spoiled boys, servants scurrying, concubines bowing?
The mountain has lovely birds, with clear throats and beautiful feathers.
They lead long calls and cries, in groups they call and answer.
Night pipes and wind strings, mournful reeds and complaining pillars.
Is this not better than alley songs and village dances,
Cramped leaps and clownish jumps, wild and wanton, lewd and foul,
Where father and son show no respect, abandoning rites, forgetting rules?
Such things as before are many; words cannot exhaust.
You take joy with it, climbing right, pulling left.
Why live lonely and alone, sighing awake and asleep?
Zhang Zi bows again, receives the words and holds them dear.
He sheds burdens, loses sorrows; heart opens, will expands.
High mountains towering, flowing waters murmuring.
Bamboos lush, trees soaring, birds singing clear and bright.
Like Bo Yi and Shu Qi of old, and Min Ziqian and Yan Hui after.
What shall I do here? Vast and boundless, I dwell between.