The Qin people spanned the nine domains,
Wishing to pass it down for endless ages.
They erected stones by famous mountains,
Often inscribing their proud achievements.
To this day we see the remnants carved,
The characters, robust and strange in form.
Magnificent, the moss-covered script,
Unchanged its coiled and twisting force.
Eroded by wind and rain,
Within lies a spirit of a thousand fathoms.
Stern as coiling dragons,
Deep as iron and stone, sharp and hard.
Its lingering might reaches mountain spirits,
Who guard it carefully, dare not let it fall.
The skilled scribes of Han and Wei,
Could they even look down upon it?
Unable to grasp its outer bounds,
How could they merely chase graceful charm?
At first, no single day of elegance,
But thrice the distance kept in awe.
The prose is also wondrous and ancient,
Heirs to the likes of Sima Qian and Yang Xiong.
Observing what it praises and recounts,
Would it flatter the high and mighty?
Clever words did not err greatly,
But in the end were burdened by vulgar trends.
Alas, before the knotted rope records,
Who then could have noted this?
Ruler and minister shared inaction,
Ruling the world with folded hands.
The Spring and Autumn Annals recorded days and months,
The Great Changes handed down judgments and appendices.
The House of Qin grew weary of repose,
Acting with measures of weight and stone.
This old man altered ancient script,
Cheng Miao divided seal and clerical forms.
From this, proliferation grew,
Daily tending toward simplicity.
Galloping through a thousand years,
Vastly expending paper and brush.
Who can end these vexing texts,
Sweep them all beyond the heavens?
This writing, though still extant,
May be valued for its scarcity.
Holding this withered wooden branch,
I too have little cause for shame.