Southeast stretch the mountain chains, their forms and vital breath in broken lines.
This peak reaches the utmost steep, standing alone in the heart of Yue.
Lush green overlooks the city walls, its beauty and grace a blessing for the folk.
It should be kept from woodcutters' axes; the one in charge must be strict.
Who knows in times long past, who came to claim and register this land?
Private kitchens, counting fuel for cooking, at all times felled the finest trees.
Official meals, seeking profit and wealth, for years have cut the tall bamboos.
Hastily they wield their axes, echoing clangs resound through stream and vale.
A million leaves ruin the dense canopy, a thousand poles topple like cold jade.
Twisted, no branch remains intact; of elegant groves, few traces are left.
The ravage is not yet sated; the peaks' emerald green will soon be bald.
Crane companions grieve and startle; cloud visages turn grim and foul.
Not only is life's vigor crushed, but also elegance and custom harmed.
A true king possesses benevolent grace; even roadside reeds receive his dew.
Alas, such men as these, how can they bear not to think of nurturing growth?
Now I hold the official seal, and here rest my crimson carriage.
I say, how can the mountain lack a spirit? Why is it defiled by men?
I summon clerks before the spring and stones, proclaim a ban to guard the wooded slopes.
Hoping to foster its soaring beauty, and spare it from cruel devastation.
To future wise governors, these words I wish repeated.