The foremost mountain stream in the world is Wuyi,
Where the Ascension Cave and King's Pillar stand in harmony.
In some past Mid-Autumn, the Jade Emperor feasted his descendants,
With cloud-canopied pavilions and rainbow-colored bridges.
To seek immortal traces, I search the numinous earth,
Rowing upstream by boat, climbing perilous paths with a staff.
Light as if winged, I climb the misty vines and celestial stairs,
Looking down on the distant mortal realm—only jagged peaks high and low.
The Dragon Cave leads to Heaven's Pool, where cranes dance with twin plumes,
Iron bones lie in jade caskets, jade husks blend with fragrant mud.
Moon soaks the Guanyin Rock, as if her golden form appears at Putuo,
Wind howls at the Jade Maiden Peak, like the wail of Xiang River's consort.
Immortal halls and schools—the sound of reading is heard,
Alchemy stoves and tea hearths—morning mist veils them.
Boats moored mid-valley, envoys' stars sail the Milky Way home,
The ancient loom left in a cave, the Weaving Maid gone to be the Cowherd's wife.
A chessboard carved on rock, a fishing terrace overlooks the clear stream,
Tigers roar in cliffs, golden pheasants nest in lairs.
The lion crouches on rock, its aura fresh in the sun,
Immortal goats turned to stone, sleeping in clouds and lush grass.
The Great and Small Vaults hold wonders, below cold dragon pools,
The Thread of Sky pierces the cosmos, beside a chilling wind cave.
Ink and brush arrayed—thus inspiration arises,
Granaries of stone stored high—one can forget hunger.
Far from red dust, orchids and osmanthus bloom in the mountains,
Where are the immortals? Dogs and crows heard among clouds.
The Tea Grotto deep and dark—waterfalls fly from cliffs,
The Peach Blossom Spring profound—following the stream finds a path.
Some dwell in Great Hidden Screen, studying Zhou and Confucius, living on pickles,
Only seeing this mind at peace, refining great elixir, taking the pill.
Since Lord Wuyi left, thirteen immortals arose together,
Each age lacks not such men—ascending the immortal ranks.
Some left their corpses—a single sandal returned,
Some soared aloft—the iron flute long whistling.
Viewing past from present—Wu and Li could follow footsteps,
No need for ancient lament—sorrowful sighs.
I write this to urge comrades—wishing to lean on the immortal's palm, rubbing the red cliff,
Drunk, I wield my pillar-brush—inscribing boldly, leaving my mark.