Long have I heard of Cloud's Edge Mountain,
Within it lies an ancient monastery.
In early autumn, glad for a distant view,
Determined, I strive to climb to the top.
Leaving the city, meet a light rain,
Cool wind at dawn, lush and damp.
Crossing slopes, over the great ridge,
Sandy path clean, without mud.
Wild fields fertile, rice paddies splendid,
Plows and hoes along ditches and plots.
Ascend hills, then enter valleys,
Gradually pass west of Western Hill.
Lift my head to see splendid buildings,
Two shores luxuriantly side by side.
An airy bridge spans mist and haze,
Steep gates arrayed like rainbows.
Dismount, tread the perilous steps,
Lift my robe, climb the long stairs.
Transcendent, beyond layered towers,
Look up to see the vault of heaven low.
Looking down, what is there to see?
Dense, towering trees in rows.
Noise and clamor from clerks' talk,
Chirps and cries startle birds to sing.
After the meal, again we search and explore,
Within the woods find a secluded path.
At the cliff's recess visit spiritual traces,
The great sage often dwells on high.
Ancient halls eroded by moss and lichen,
Paintings darkened by dust and grime.
Stoop to tread dangerous stone steps,
Step sideways along the deep stream.
Old trees shade a dark pool,
Wind rises, cicadas shrill.
A hanging spring washes the shaded wall,
Its gleaming color like glass.
Fine views truly worthy of attachment,
Lingering, I fear a fall or crush.
Grasping vines, emerge from heaven's peril,
Then spare my soul from parting fear.
Walk slowly across rugged heights,
Two banners follow my staff and cane.
Looking back at the flower-rain land,
Already veiled by mist and cloud.
Rein in my horse, descend to level land,
Sunny riverbank retains hoof-prints.
New bamboos reflect against blue sky,
A wild temple faces the long dyke.
Weary, I halt my returning steps,
In a wild garden tread on tender shoots.
Two tall trees sway and spread,
Luxuriant, drooping red clusters.
Draw water from the well, rinse with sweet liquid,
Dust off, read old inscriptions.
Exiting the gate, the sun still slants,
Faintly hear the city's evening drum.
Splendid sights too are traces of the past,
Vast and blank, I lose all clues.
Write a poem to record a vague impression,
My friends, do not reprove or blame.