A fishing boat follows the stream, loving the mountain spring.
Peach blossoms line both banks, escorting the departing ferry.
Sitting, I watch red trees, unaware of the distance.
Walking to the green stream's end, I see no one.
At the mountain pass, I sneak through winding paths.
The mountain opens to a vast view of level land.
From afar, a place where clouds and trees gather.
Drawing near, a thousand homes amid flowers and bamboo.
Woodcutters first tell of Han-era names.
The dwellers still wear Qin-style clothes.
They all live together in Wuling's source.
And beyond the mundane, they've started fields and gardens.
Moonlight brightens pines, rooms are still.
Sunrise in clouds, chickens and dogs clamor.
Startled, common guests vie to gather.
Competing to lead home, asking of the capital.
At dawn, lanes are swept as flowers bloom.
At dusk, fishermen and woodcutters ride the water in.
First they left the world to escape turmoil.
Then, becoming immortals, they never returned.
Who in the gorge knows of human affairs?
The world afar gazes at empty cloud-capped peaks.
No doubt this divine realm is hard to hear of or see.
But worldly hearts, not yet purged, think of home.
Leaving the cave, regardless of mountains and waters.
Leaving home, I plan to wander long.
I thought my past passage would not mislead.
How could I know peaks and valleys have now changed?
Then I only remembered going deep into the mountains.
The green stream's many bends lead to clouded woods.
Spring comes, everywhere is peach-blossom water.
I cannot tell where to seek the immortal source.