The mountain's cave, left cheek, I found a jade stele.
Its length one full foot, its width a medicine spoon's blade.
Its color like late autumn sky, edges rise on four sides.
A light tap emits a cold stream, pure sorrow stirs gods and ghosts.
I bow and hold it in my hands, it feels just like a piece of water.
The ultimate text has no text, God surely has a reason.
I suspect it's an immortal stone spirit, wish to compare it to a transcendent.
Hoping for fragrant broth to wash it, to send it back to the scripture hall.
But this wretched donkey, poor in form, moves like a lame turtle.
For ten li, five li it walks, stumbling a hundred, a thousand times.
Yan Hui died not so young, yet the jade stele broke mid-road.
Searching for turtle cracks in its lines, the straight grain lets tiles split.
Split bamboo cannot join, a broken ring forever parts.
Toward people it seems sentimental, as if in pain but shedding no blood.
Examined on flat ground, cracks and gaps show many bites and flaws.
A hundred views, a hundred heartbreaks, cannot bear to lift it again.
How strange, its firm and steadfast form, suddenly brittle, not solid.
Moreover, we mortal humans, how can we keep constant measure?
I dare ask: when living things form, does decay hold true essence?
Endowed with a numinous, strange energy, it must not suffer filth and defilement.
The donkey's crime is not so grave, the donkey's life was also a mistake.
Pressing onward further ahead, I fear again the mountain god's wrath.
White clouds densely shroud the ridge, tall pines chant over ancient tombs.
Leaving this, enduring its wound, I drive the donkey down the mountain path.