Zhenyang boasts fine scenes, yet none surpass South Mountain.
The mountain towers high, kissing clouds a myriad feet above.
Climbing to the summit, one finds a world beyond the mortal dust.
An ancient temple's spirit remains, with open terraces and old railings.
Blue stones bear dragon patterns, chilling with constant wind and cold.
Gazing far, no bounds in sight, the sky and earth feel suddenly vast.
Directly north, two rivers merge, their force splits the midstream shoal.
The shoal lies crosswise, the water turns, winding into a narrow bend.
Peaks crowd from the west, perilous as the Hangu Pass.
In the hollow left, a Buddhist shrine, a blessed ground for monks' peace.
Monks cultivate and pray for the emperor's long life, a plaque bestowed from the ninefold heavens.
Beside it stands a screen of stone, spanning acres high and low.
Some stand in rows like folding screens, some square like immortal altars.
Some stand like halted steeds, some rush like sailing ships.
Some crouch like tigers resting, some coil like dragons curled.
Some stern like guarding officers, some arrayed like star officials.
Some stoop like aged men, their forms and faces gaunt.
Some solemn like upright scholars, their caps and robes in order.
Some pile like rosy clouds, layered and clustered tight.
Some surge like rolling waves, linked in rushing torrents.
Some tilt then rise again, as beasts in hunting crouch.
Some soar but do not land, as birds shot twist in flight.
Some follow one by one, like courtiers to the golden hall.
Some jagged, not aligned, like soldiers forming rings.
Some flat like desks and tables, where cups and plates could spread.
Some jut from riverbanks, where fishing rods could hang.
Some turn their backs as if in spite, some face as if in joy.
Some sound like chime stones ringing, some colored like leopard spots.
Some stacked to form a pagoda, some laid to make a saddle.
Some scattered and apart, some dense and curved in rings.
Some clever, yet not strange; some blunt, yet not obtuse.
Though paired, they are not matched; though single, not alone.
Though close, they do not crowd; though pressed, they do not break.
There are rooms where Buddha may dwell, stoves where elixirs may brew.
There are caves for rest and leisure, cliffs for climbing high.
Fresh air abounds in plenty, steaming mists do not intrude.
Heaven and earth carved this out, not by axe or blade.
Travelers grasp its essence, but words cannot exhaust its forms.
The Tongtian and Three Gorges—how could they compare?
Today there is no Wang Wei, to paint it with a master's hand.
Quietly I think of Jade Pool immortals—would they not pause their phoenix flights?
Again I wonder of Peach Blossom folk, treading the void in secret comings and goings.
I have the joy of worthy company, searching deep with tireless thought.
Inscribing names or composing poems, craftsmen carve with skillful hands.
Alas, the years have passed, and nearly all is worn and blurred.
The mountain monks show little wonder, but kindred souls sigh in admiration.
Then comes an aged immortal seeker, roaming alone, forgetting meals.
Dust and grime all cleared away, trees and brush trimmed by his hand.
He specially made a plot of land, to share the view of ancient tillage.
A small pavilion wings above it, where wander and dwell never cease.
Here one may play weiqi, with strategies manifold.
Here one may brew tea, drawing clear waves from the river's heart.
Here one may sit in meditation, all worldly cares cast aside.
Who knows the true delight, to idle the long day away?
The splendid vista gains more weight, fresh and cool, doubly rich.
Though mountain stones have no feeling, they seem to wait with words.
And more, the reclusive gentlemen, silent, unknown at first.
Some hide amid official posts, some vanish by cliff and spring.
A kindred soul's mere touch awakes them—how can mere stones compare?
Our lord and people, like Yao and Shun, their deeds will last ten thousand years.