Mount Lu, so pure, who can be your peer?
With jagged cliffs, it strides across Fan Yang, Pengli, and kicks the Nine Rivers near.
The long streams, deep and dark, flow ceaselessly through all ages,
Struck by rain and buffeted by wind's rages.
In the mountain's deep, silent realm where human traces are rare,
All day, I meet but one woodcutter, white-haired, with bushy eyebrows there.
The path winds treacherous and steep,
Crossing thousands of miles of perilous, cavernous deep.
In the sixth month's heat, I feel it not,
But hear only the jade pendants' tinkling, the streams' riotous lot.
Heaven keeps away the dust of carriage and horse,
Allowing only a staff to cross this mountain's course.
Fit for the recluse to tread the path of Dao,
With focused will, free from clamor's row.
Plants and trees stand firm, never withering,
Arrayed like feather banners beyond the clouds hovering.
Like Ning Zhi's spotless purity,
This mountain stands as his match, a pair for all to see.
Fields are mostly barren, few are fertile,
Food scarce, bodies not robust, life brittle.
With pine-brewed wine, calling the moon as candlelight,
Drinking from gourd or earthen bowl, who needs jade cups bright?
Those tangled desires that obscure the mind,
Why not carve eight windows to let clarity shine?
Drunken living, dreamlike death, mere mayflies,
Through eons, only steadfast cypress and sage's jade never dies.
If one can preserve this without change,
What need is there for fame in kingdoms strange?
One visit makes it unforgettable,
Longing heart drunk, spirit in thrall.
I write this poem for my own delight,
As a thousand paintings unveiled, on a pole of thousand-ren height.