Man of Green Hill,
gaunt and pure,
originally an official of the immortals
beneath the Pavilion of Five-Color Clouds:
what year was he sent down in exile
to this world below?
He won't tell people his family or name.
Hiking in sandals? He's tired of distant trips.
Shouldering a hoe? Too lazy to farm!
He owns a sword, but lets it rust,
and books which lie scattered in confusion.
Unwilling to bend his waist
for five pecks of rice,
unwilling to wag his tongue
to persuade cities to surrender.
He only enjoys searching for verses,
chanting to himself, with himself exchanging poems.
Through the fields, he drags his cane
and wears a rope belt:
onlookers don't know who he is,
they just laugh and mock!
They take him for the crazy scholar of Lu,
the wild man of Ch'u.
But when the Man of Green Hill hears,
he pays them no heed:
the sounds of chanting leave his lips
endlessly, humming a steady stream.
Chanting in the morning—he forgets his hunger;
chanting in the evening, to calm his unease.
And as he painstakingly chants,
he goes into a trance as if drunk.
His hair he has no time to comb;
family matters he can't bother to attend.
If baby cries, he feels no compassion.
If guests come, he doesn't even greet them.
He has no fear of running out of food, like Hui,
nor does he admire the full coffers of Mr. Yi.
He feels no shame in wearing coarse garments
nor does he envy flowery hatstrings.
He pays no heed to dragons and tigers
bitterly fighting
or the Crow and Frog as they hastily run their course.
Along the water's edge alone he sits
or in the woods alone he walks.
He hews out Primal Vapor
and explores the Primal Essence.
So hard for the Creator and ten thousand creatures
to conceal themselves from him!
Throughout the eight corners of the universe
sweeps the blade of his mind,
causing that which has no image
to produce a sound.
Minute! Like shooting a louse, hanging
from a hair;
Gigantic! As if butchering a whale.
So pure, like sipping immortal nectar;
dangerous, as though steep cliffs were piled high.
Burgeoning, clouds gathering in the sky;
issuing, shoots of plants through frost.
Climbing high to the root of Heaven,
exploring the moon's caves;
rhinocerous horn illuminating Ox Island Abyss
where ten thousand monsters appear!
Subtle meanings suddenly comprehended,
as if by a spirit;
lovely landscapes always competing
with the mountains and streams.
Stars and rainbows contribute to the luster;
mists and fogs moisten flowery bloom.
Listen to the music—harmonies of Shao;
savor the taste—he's mastered the Great Broth.
There's nothing else here in this world
that pleases me,
only sounds of metal and stone
chiming and ringing together.
In my thatched hut beside the river,
clearing after wind and rain,
I close my door, wake fresh from sleep,
and finish a new poem.
Beating on a jar, I sing out loud,
not caring if vulgar ears are shocked.
I want to call the old father from Mount Chün
to bring with him the long flute played by the immortals,
and harmonize with this song of mine,
playing in the moonlight.
I only fear that suddenly waves will arise,
birds and beasts will howl in fear
and mountains crumble away.
If God hears this, He'll be angry
and send down a white crane to bring me back,
not leaving me to do my mischief in this world,
but again to tie on my pendant of jade
and fly to the Jasper Capital!