In childhood I heard of Mount Luo, where immortals dwelled in caves.
Yearning to go there often, yet worldly cares held me back.
This morning, what a fine day, with gentle breeze and warm sun.
By chance with two or three friends, we set out to fulfill that vow.
We trekked rugged hills and streams, ascending steep cliffs into clouds.
Cliffs sheer as cascades, slopes leveling into plains.
A spring emerged from nowhere, its murmuring sound soft and clear.
Winding like a slithering snake, it flowed into the mountain's fields.
Pausing to wash my feet, sleeves fluttering in the breeze.
Soon we climbed the highest peak, saw a few rafters of a house.
A craggy old stone statue, its age lost to touch and time.
Peach blossoms pierced through thick grass, smiling with delicate grace.
Stone screens and emerald walls, clustered in rows before and behind.
We gazed freely at the sights, the boundless world spread before us.
I asked my fellow travelers, which day of the journey this was.
Otherwise, why so sublime, not joined with other peaks?
Where is Chang'an, after all? Perhaps beyond the setting sun.
Ten years of bitter strife, blood staining spears and swords.
Who knew a wanderer beyond dust could claim a valley as his own?
Roaming with such joy, I felt as if floating away.
This journey may not come again, lingering, I could not move on.
How the moon amid the woods cast its clear, lovely shadows.
Urged to leave, I resented the early hour, fearing the hills might change.
Returning home, deep regret arose, I vowed to renounce worldly affairs.
But seeking the path we came, traces broken, hard to climb.
Spring rain fell thick and dense, the stream murmured on.
Pacing, unable to ascend, ashamed I lacked the fate for transcendence.