Parted at Wanqiu, now five years have passed,
In Bian we lingered but a single day.
My remnant life drifts, a guest in the southeast,
Worries and hardships invade, my heart feels lost.
Your spirit and bearing remain as before,
Only I sense you gaunt, yet firm and real.
Like frost and dew entering autumn mountains,
Sweeping away lush growth, peaks and ridges emerge.
You say lately you've read books on nurturing life,
Learning somewhat from immortals, eating fungus and herbs.
Searching through manuals, you found poria cocos,
Said to be a thousand-year thing from between pines.
Ground to eat, it can stave off hunger,
Success takes time, not achieved in haste.
Above, it matches metal and stone, avoiding poison and cracks,
Below, compared to grass and trees, it is strong and firm.
Trickling, you rinse and take in white-jade essence,
Refined with primal energy, absorbed into the bones.
Immortality is something men do not know,
How can one abandon the art just because it's hard to seek?
Hearing your words, my heart sighs alone,
Wishing to ask the great void, probe the vague and dim.
Why are you not clad in gold and vermilion?
Instead left to wither, thinking of rocky caves.
I also see worldly affairs cannot last,
Who can determine rise and fall as fixed?
A lifetime of high carriage and cap—what reliance is there?
Especially with morning promotion and evening dismissal.
How better to sit upright, nourishing body and frame,
Long-lived, healthy, peaceful, without premature death.
Thus I know this may not be a bad plan,
But laugh at the children craving chaff and husks.
A blue-robed disciple once received your teaching,
Fated for hardship and poverty, with few peers.
I know I've no destiny to become a high minister,
Yet also have some mind to explore old age and Buddha.
Only thinking of warmth and fullness, my wish ends there,
Vainly hoping for fame and merit—my heart truly does not.
In the end, I hope to walk with staff, following you,
And further beg a magic pill to save my fading strength.