Mount Ke pierces the sky, neighbor to heaven,
A flying immortal's cave, free of worldly stain.
Blessed by spirits, nurtured with grace divine,
Not just Zhong and Shen born on Mount Song high.
Smiling, he leaves Penglai, departs the purple court,
His Daoist bones, pure and bright, outshine brocade.
Twenty-eight constellations fill his heart,
Clear moon and gentle breeze reflect in his brow.
His family's scholarly fame long renowned,
The minister's mansions spread north and south.
In mortal world, such triple excellence unseen,
In heaven, once beheld auspicious five-hued clouds.
Annotating poems, expounding rites, he exhausts family learning,
More than debating classics, he could corner the wise.
With book-box drumming, he comes to tour blue waters,
Among worthy talents, he's hailed as the first to awaken.
His mighty prose, unmatched since ancient times,
Who knows if Han and Liu were not his past lives?
We await Jiangxia's peerless reputation,
Yet only allow him Fanchuan's fifth place.
Tired of court duties, he prays for a provincial post,
Temporarily holding the star-screen, left of the bronze tiger.
Ten thousand voices vie to sing of his rule by the sea,
The hanging couch already inscribed for Chen Zhongju.
His great fame reaches the ruler's face so near,
We stand listening for the chariot urging his recall.
Returning to hold the purple lotus pouch in pure forbidden halls,
Then tread the red steps among jade bamboo rows.
Now I'm fortunate to meet his birthday morn,
Dare I gather folk songs and write with my weak brush?
What single word to wish for my lord?
May he aid this peaceful age, endless and evermore.