A wisp of warm wind dances through green locust trees,
Zhu Rong's fiery chariot rolls from the south.
Crabapples fall, bees and butterflies depart,
The pond house empty, lotus buds still closed.
A handful of clear, harmonious essence, fluid,
Pure Qian has turned into the mare, Kun.
Mountains and rivers gather this heroic spirit,
Collect it, store it suddenly in a gourd.
Before the steps, fourteen荚蓂 leaves,
The advisor dreams of a qilin at night.
The old man in oak bark laughs through his nose,
The primal spring, before the embryo forms.
Lü Dongbin's cleverness turns to clumsiness,
On the road to Penglai, the moon hangs empty.
Plums on the wall, wax on the branch,
Pomegranates by the pond, blood beneath leaves.
Born upright, full of vital spirit,
His nature eccentric, devoted to primal truth.
Suddenly he grasps the secret of lead and mercury,
Dares to say the Great Dao knows no Chu or Qin.
Abruptly, the golden elixir completes nine cycles,
The ten-month embryo forms, unknown to men.
Shaking heaven and earth, moving ghosts and gods,
Only when green clouds and white cranes appear is boredom dispelled.
Future generations under heaven think of the True Man,
Often celebrate the True Man's birthday with him.
The cherry and bamboo shoot kitchen opens on the right day,
Even Buddhists wish to make wax figures.
Who began this tradition, none know for sure,
It truly started in Qiaoling during the Five Dynasties.
Wang Shen held a gathering, assembled robed and capped,
White cranes flew in, who knows how many?
Next, the Xiao family built an immortal's abode,
Seven Min regions, ten thousand households, auspicious smoke rose.
One commandery, then two, gradually transformed by influence,
Swiftly they came to know and revere Dongbin's worth.
Running south and north of the city several times,
People also don't know when Master Hui Lao returns.
They only see old pines speaking like humans,
To whose house does the master bring his inkstone?
Composing a poem at Taiping Temple,
Again saying polishing the mirror finds people foolish.
A long whistle at the heart of Yueyang city,
How long since the iron flute fell silent?
In Baowu, a man of the Pan family,
His wish for fame satisfied, heart and lungs rejoice.
From childhood devotion until this day,
Across the land, staffs and sandals swarm like ants.
Among ten thousand fingers, I see Yu Chan,
Not minding ragged, unkempt clothes.
Inscribing a poem to wish you steadfast as metal or stone,
Morning incense, evening candles, increasing solemnity.
The old sage Miaotong secretly claps his hands,
In what year will the bear enter his dreams?
Waiting for her to grow tall, about to reach hair-pinning age,
Putting robes and alms bowl in order, blessings immeasurable.
Five hundred white cranes call to the green clouds,
Deep in the green clouds, jade plums are new.
If someone asks about ascension to immortality,
Just look at the sun and moon wheels in the sky.