Beneath Taihang, clear and shallow,
A stream winds and twists around the mountain.
Thousands of peaks, countless ravines,
Rare grasses, secluded flowers seldom seen.
In the waves, the white sun hides then shines bright,
The wind stirs not the light floating clouds.
On emerald peaks, jade maidens descend with twin cranes,
Smiling, leaning on autumn silk, clearing skies anew.
Again I doubt it's the source of Wuling Stream,
Where Peach Blossom Creek ends, only murmurs remain.
Secluded springs pause again by the cliff's side,
Spraying pearls, rinsing jade, clamoring together.
Troops of monkeys see this and flee the sheer walls,
Scaling peaks on illusory ladders, effortless.
Singing birds turn their faces, fly away from men,
For they have never been acquainted.
Leaning on my staff, greedy to look up,
Hindered by rocks, pulling vines, misstep my clogs.
The path ends, twisting, seems to turn back,
Meandering, a screen opens to a layer of green.
Meeting a seat, the last cup of wine is poured,
Picking wild fruits at once, all unnamed.
Inscribing a poem, wishing to exhaust fine lines,
Able to sing, yet chanting like an immortal is hard.
Heaven's Gate lies deep, ten miles west,
Helpless, the setting sun urges my return.
Who can be entrusted with celestial affairs,
To beg for me a moment's reprieve?
No ladder to heaven, the sun pays no heed,
Desolate, I return, the altar not yet dark.
Closing the gate, dismounting, one quilt cold,
Dreaming, my soul gallops—to where?