Why does Fengcheng produce so many heroes and sages?
Old Du Fu once wrote of the floating clouds.
Ji You's name is known throughout the land,
He and I both emerged from Goushan's immortals.
In Yuzhang, a solid stele still stands,
Uncarved for ten thousand years, through all ages.
Yet five hundred years separate us from Ji You,
Our stars, undimmed, share the same celestial path.
To serve the king with lofty, soaring spirit,
With Feng Hou and Li Mu advising before me.
Often the sword's aura surges to the sky,
Ji's is Tai'e, Zhong's is the Dragon Spring.
The Dipper and the River gleam, bright and fresh,
How could Lei Huan have known the reason why?
Buried in mist at West Hill's northern cliffs,
Not like the linked jade wells of Huayin.
At Yanjin, twin dragons coil in the end,
I regret not knowing Zhang Maoxian.
Why is the spirit dimmed, the form obscured?
Pu, with coarse bones wrapped in plain silk cloth.
Your knock upon my door, clear and rounded,
I ask and find our births are linked.
Both dwelling in Fengcheng, north and south,
The Five Phases, Seven Luminaries hard to bind.
A jade ring sunk in dust at the world's edge,
Your lofty talk, bold debate, flows like a stream.
I hunch my back, withdraw my hands, dare not stretch,
Yang, Xu, Li, Lü—a fragrant throng of orchids.
Alone at Cloudy Stream, you plumb Luo Lu's depths,
Such men can be gathered, not cast aside.
On the broad road, heroes surely lie concealed;
Pu, it's a shame you are so poor and cold.
On sandy shore, calm egrets huddle, pure;
On pine tips, a wild crane drifts, alone, aloft.
You should dwell in woods and valleys, in empty Zen,
Or else on rivers and lakes, in misty rain boats—
Neither of these, I fear, you can rightly bear.
Three coins for a peck of rice, for you ten thousand,
Vegetable roots and fallen leaves seem like rank mutton.
In time, six boards but no shoulders to bear them,
A mat of dry reeds—even that you'd grudge.
I laugh at my own bones, stuck and slow,
Sometimes I wave the whisk, pluck mournful strings.
You speak my fate, all five elements complete,
Roughly circling with the year Gengwu.
I suddenly laugh loud—you miss the mark:
If fish found water in Gengwu's power,
Would they consent to drift carefree in Jiangnan?
With merit done, fame won, one soars on high,
Not to be Zifang, but to be Zhonglian.
Uncle Bao of Zezhou draws one's pity,
Long kneeling, bids farewell, heads to Wu's boat.
No vase, no bowl, much less a felt rug,
The palace's golden mirror shoots jade light.
If any ask, do not deceive to their face,
But tell the truth: the ashes are not so.
There is another path, not of this world,
Where Wang the Mad came from, following Stream Mad.
The fox's track enters not the elephant king's ring,
Donkey's milk cannot touch the lion's drool.
Linji suffered full from Huangbo's whip,
Three lashes, and he leapt to heaven's peak.
One shout, one stamp, made a level plain,
Later three heroes diligently spread the way.
Buddha's sun, thunderbolts—three heaven's gates,
Feet shake the donkey on the octagonal plate.
Driving thunder, chasing lightning, racing rapids,
In the Hall of Bright Moon, one sleep, one dream.
When will the Dharma drum's sound fill the air?
Now as you leave, the wind just starts to rage.
The great river vast, snow fills the streams,
With water-shield and perch zest spent, you hoist west sail.
If you wish to see me on Huai's riverbank,
Not on Lu Mountain, then on Ancestor Mountain.