A skilled craftsman carves the mountain's bone, hollows its core for boiling.
A straight handle not yet in power, its mouth blocked, swallowing its voice.
The dragon head shrinks, dull and clumsy; the pig's belly swells, bloated.
Outer skin bears dry moss patterns, within, hidden waves startle.
In cold, it finds its own peace; when burned, its resolve grows firmer.
Wrongly placed among cauldrons, it recklessly makes water and fire contend.
Large as a martyr's courage, round like a warhorse's tassel.
Above, sharper than an incense burner; below, flat as a mirror's surface.
An autumn melon, stem still attached; a frozen taro, forcibly sprouting.
A lump where primal energy is sealed, a thin spring from a dark pore trickles.
Not at the place of pouring out, how can one know the clarity it holds?
Just as the great furnace blazes, the small vessel's fullness is more seen.
Smooth and flawless, no blade marks; round and full, as if heaven-made.
From afar, like the turtle bearing the chart, emerging to bask at clear dawn.
At its side, two ears are pierced; above, a solitary topknot props.
Some marvel at the short-tailed pot, others see a footless tripod.
A pity, like a Cold Food festival ball, tossed by the roadside ditch.
When will it emerge from the ashes? No way to leave the vase or jar.
Its crude form bears the ladling, its narrow middle shames the lifting.
Could it boil immortal herbs? It merely avoids sullying mutton stew.
Its shape draws women's laughter, its capacity deemed light by children.
It only shows a firm, heavy nature, holding no more than a pint or two.
Beside, like a discarded hub upturned; seen sideways, a broken axle lies horizontal.
At times, through earthworm holes, it faintly makes a fly's buzzing sound.
Thus it overturns excess and fault, truly failing its entrusted duty.
Often dwelling in a watched-over place, how dare it leak any sentiment?
Rather cling to the flaw of warmth, not join with cold and chill.
Trifling efforts, merely self-serving; petty matters, not worth presenting.
Spinning round, just dull and inert; opening and closing, only clanging.
Wholly surpassing the noble ritual vessels, yet only empty, famed by word of mouth.
How compare to ancient sacrificial vessels, not to be handled by hand?
Ground down to remove sharp corners, soaked to acquire a glossy sheen.
I beg you, sir, do not mock or scorn; this object is now being put to use.