Are gods real? Vague and remote.
The Peach Blossom Spring tale is absurd.
Winding streams, mountains a hundred turns,
A few silk scrolls hang in the central hall.
The Wuling Prefect, a man of taste,
Inscribed and sent them far to the Southern Palace.
The Southern Palace scholar, delighted to receive them,
Let waves surge from his brush, driving his prose.
Literature and painting each reach their peak,
This strange realm seems to shift right here.
They built palaces by cliffs and valleys,
Connecting houses and walls for countless days.
Qin's fall, Han's stumble, unheard of,
Heaven split, earth torn, of no concern.
Peach trees planted everywhere bloom,
Near and far, plains and streams steam with red clouds.
At first, they still missed their hometowns,
With years, this place became their home.
The fisherman's son, where did he come from?
They eyed him with suspicion, asked questions.
'A great snake cut, the former king lost,','Horses crossed south, a new lord arose.'
They listened, words ended, all felt sorrow,
He said it had been six hundred years now.
Back then, they witnessed everything firsthand,
Who knows how much is still passed down?
They vied to bring wine and food as gifts,
Etiquette differed, vessels were strange.
The moon bright, lodging in the empty jade hall,
Bones cold, soul clear, no dreams at all.
At midnight, golden roosters crow shrilly,
A fiery wheel flies out, startling the guest.
Mortal burdens make staying impossible,
Still, parting is hard to bear.
The boat sets off, oars move, one last look back,
Vast miles of grey mist and water at dusk.
The worldly know not false from true,
To this day, it's the people of Wuling who tell it.