《雲山集》

This passage explores the relationship between human nature and cosmic truth. The spiritual essence of humanity (Xing, 性) resembles a lamp illuminating both past and future, capable of comprehending historical transformations and the mysteries of life and death. In stillness, it manifests as innate nature; in movement, it reveals as consciousness. Delving into this eternal spiritual source (the abyss of kalpas), though profoundly mysterious, contains the ceaseless wonder of creation.

This intrinsic nature existed even before the separation of heaven and earth in primordial chaos. Like the earth's profound stillness that awakens to meditative realization (Diwen minghui, 地文冥会), or like the sudden dawn of celestial light that brings enlightenment (Fa tianguang er zhaoche, 发天光而朝彻). Such a state transcends illusory appearances—ineffable yet naturally aligned with eternal truth (Zhenchang, 真常), utterly free and unconstrained.

The function of this nature manifests through movement and stillness, speech and silence, yet its essence surpasses sensory experience (beyond taste, color, sound, or fragrance). Unleashed, it expands boundlessly; restrained, it becomes exquisitely subtle. Like cold ashes rekindled or withered wood reviving, refining pure Yang Qi (Lian zhenshi, 炼真实) can forge the Golden Elixir (Jindan, 金丹), unfathomable even to spirits. Concentrating emptiness forms an impenetrable barrier, impervious to blades.

Though the myriad things display infinite variations (Zuozhi wanshu, 作止万殊), their root remains one (Genyuan yigong, 根源一共). Some grasp it instantly through pointed dialogue (Qiao cuo niannong, 俏措拈弄), while others gradually embody it through serene cultivation (Danbo anyang, 澹薄安养). Like the vanishing trace of the White Ox Cart (a Buddhist metaphor) or the seamless perfection of a jeweled pagoda; akin to a lifelike wall painting or sudden awakening amidst a shout and staff strike.

When the mind becomes lucid, it reflects all things naturally—as a still pool mirrors stars or a clear mirror reveals images. The subtle function of turning the cosmic pivot (Yunshu huan, 运枢环) flows like water in effortless harmony. Maintaining this serene state, even mountain clouds pale in purity, and river moons seem incomplete by comparison.

Those who indulge the seven emotions (Wangzi qiqing, 妄恣七情) and abandon their natural spontaneity (Bu bao tianyou, 不保天游) drift like floating tiles or empty boats, rootless and adrift. Yet the gate of the Dao (Da shi zhi men, 大施之门) remains eternally open—unobstructed, its wordless teaching (Pu hua lüming, 普化驴鸣) manifests everywhere. Like birds exulting in primordial Chaos (Hongmeng, 鸿蒙), the shared laughter at Tiger Brook (a Chan anecdote), or Nan Guo Ziqi's (a Zhuangzi figure) sigh gazing skyward.

Cultivation may require years of accumulation (Jiunian cheng damiao, 九年成大妙) or ignite in a single night of realization (Yisu zheng wuyu, 一宿证无余). From the vast to the minute (Juxi hongxian, 巨细洪纤), the Dao appears in all things; among creatures that fly, swim, move, or grow (Feiqian dongzhi, 飞潜动植), suchness reveals itself. No need for Gongsun Long's sophistry ("a white horse is not a horse") or Hui Shi's pondering ("are fish happy?"). Better to polish the eyes of mountain elders (Guaye lao zhi shuang jing, 刮野老之双睛) and sever the delusions of discriminatory thought (Duan shantong, 断山童).

The Yunshan Ji explores the profound relationship between mind-nature and Daoist cultivation. The key to practice lies in attaining the state of "sitting in oblivion" (zuowang), a meditative state of self-forgetting where distinctions between self and object dissolve. In delusion, one resembles the mythical Jingwei bird fruitlessly filling the ocean; upon awakening, one becomes like the legendary Wangxiang beast effortlessly finding its pearl. The slightest deviation in action leads a thousand miles astray, and words can hardly convey the ultimate truth. Though daily activities may appear casual, when the brush touches paper, all worldly distractions have already been cleansed.

Mind-nature originates from the Dao, inherently pure and spontaneous. Thoughts serve as the pivot between good and evil, continuously flowing as new ones replace the old. When dwelling in the state of neither existence nor non-existence, thoughts cling to external objects, chasing after sights and sounds. Hard to abandon yet difficult to grasp, the mind acts like a commander ruling over demons—eternally present—or a chieftain governing the three karmas (of body, speech, and thought), nearly impossible to restrain. Only by eliminating worldly distractions can the shen (spirit) settle peacefully, like rekindling flame from ashes or generating auspicious signs within an empty chamber (a purified space for practice).

At advanced stages of cultivation, whether tending incense flames, brewing tea, or sweeping the floor, every action flows naturally, resonating with all things. Rivers, lakes, and oceans differ in form but share the same essence; golden hairpins and vases vary in use but not in substance. When still, the mind is steady as the earth; when active, it is boundless as the sky. In every gesture, the movement of the formless Dao reveals itself.

Transcending the Ten Grounds (Bodhisattva stages) and Three Vehicles (Hinayana, Pratyekabuddha, and Mahayana paths), one masters the Five Phases (Wuxing) and Four Symbols (greater/lesser Yin and Yang). Abiding in centered harmony, the inner self becomes tranquil. Obsession with lofty pursuits only traps one in present afflictions. Where does Confucius' legacy (symbolized by the Zhu-Si rivers) reside? How to find Zhuangzi's wisdom (represented by the Lacquer Garden)? Between opening a door and setting down a staff, the great Dao reveals itself in the void-penetrating "mysterious pass" (xuanguan), the pivotal point of practice.

This dark pearl (metaphor for the Golden Elixir or Dao-fruit) shines in the realm of mysterious emptiness; the Golden Elixir (jindan) matures within the precious cauldron (the dantian). Merging heaven and earth into oneness, it shares in creation's work. Formless and free of selfish thought, it resembles spring sunlight illuminating all things; traceless and unobstructed, it moves like the autumn moon traversing the void.

The Yunshan Ji scripture explores the philosophical path through which cultivators transcend worldly delusions to comprehend the supreme Dao.

The first section elucidates the principle of harmonizing with nature and returning to primordial simplicity: Like following a river's current home, one must flow with natural rhythms. The mind should embrace all things like the vast sea, while wisdom illuminates universally like sun and moon. When reaching the state where self and objects are both forgotten, one grasps the fundamental essence of the Five Constants (humaneness, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness)—the core secret shared by all who attain the Dao.

Subsequent verses express cultivation insights through poetry: Ordinary people mired in desire are like those stuck in muddy swamps, their hearts intoxicated by profit as if spellbound by theatrical illusions, mistaking shadows for reality. Only through experiencing life's tribulations do they realize worldly existence is ultimately empty—like awakening from the Millet Dream. True joy comes only by transcending the mundane, ultimately shedding the mortal coil to ride clouds homeward.

Three enlightenment poems then reveal profound mysteries: Though cultivators appear to wander the world playfully, their actions secretly align with celestial patterns, manifesting wondrous phenomena (such as clay oxen walking or withered trees roaring like dragons). These mystical states transcend conventional distinctions of existence and non-existence, defying ordinary logic. The text employs King Mu of Zhou's celestial journey and the Yellow Emperor's dream of Huaxu Kingdom to illustrate that divine excursions—like all dreams—must return to waking reality. Only by directly pointing to one's original heart and returning to innate nature can one awaken from the grand dream of earthly existence. Just as ancient seekers of fame discovered their pursuits were but locust-tree dreams, true cultivators must discern the boundary between illusion and reality.

(Note: The "Five Constants" refer to Confucian virtues; "uncooked millet" alludes to the Pillow Tale dream allegory; "clay oxen" and "dragon-voiced withered trees" are classic Daoist metaphors representing enlightenment states beyond ordinary perception)

These passages from the Cloud Mountain Anthology can be understood in modern terms as follows:

The first section speaks of life as an illusion. Those who fight over trivial honors, like ants battling in their tiny world, are laughable—all are trapped in the great dream of chaos. The poet says he seeks the Dao (the Way) whether awake or asleep, and asks if anyone has truly attained enlightenment. Only the sound of a distant bell in the wind reminds people to transcend the mundane world.

The second section uses classical allusions to illustrate the fleeting nature of worldly affairs. The "dream of Handan" (referring to the fable of an illusory life of glory) brings fleeting wealth that vanishes in an instant; the splendor of the "Huai'an Kingdom" (a metaphor for an ant colony, symbolizing false grandeur) lasts no longer than a meal. The whole world is like a waking dream, manipulated by the forces of nature (Zao Hua, the Creator), with human life as powerless as a puppet on strings. Wisdom is boundless, yet life is short—throughout history, people have been lost in the cycle of rebirth. The poet urges: Better to awaken now and set foot on the path of cool liberation, before the body decays and regret comes too late.

The third section reflects on seeing through worldly illusions. Human affairs shift like drifting clouds—prosperity withers in a moment, yet withered trees may bloom again. Who can remain unmoved by temptation, with a heart of stone? Who can broaden their vision like the turning of a wheel? Rather than chase illusions, one should cultivate their true nature. Once the Golden Elixir (Jindan, the highest achievement in Daoist alchemy) is perfected, one may ride a crane to immortality, enduring even as heaven and earth grow old.

The fourth section is a poem of polite refusal. The poet says he is accustomed to reclusion in the mountains, dwelling in a humble hut, clumsy and inept, seeking only tranquility. Though grateful for the teachings of the master (Shangren, an honorific for a spiritual guide), he fears stirring up trouble. Gently declining an invitation to travel south, he jokes that he is like a wild duck unable to fly, his feet too calloused to walk far. Attempting to compose verse, he feels his words are clumsy, like a poor painter staining pristine paper.

Finally, a birthday poem. Celebrating Professor Du’s mother on her eightieth year, blessed with health and wealth—earthly fortunes. May she live as long as the evergreen pine and enduring rock, as auspicious as the immortal crane and divine tortoise. These heartfelt wishes are entrusted to the tangible form of written words.

(Note: Daoist terms such as "Zao Hua" (the Creator), "Golden Elixir" (Jindan), and "Shangren" (master) are preserved with contextual explanations; cultivation concepts are supplemented with background; the language remains poetic yet accessible.)

This passage depicts the wondrous scenery of Daoist celestial realms and a longevity celebration scene. At midnight, the creative forces of nature shift mountains as Magu (the Daoist immortal maiden) and her companions arrive seated on the backs of golden turtles. Towers of jade and palaces of gemstones glitter with pearls, while immortals roam cloud-wrapped valleys, daily feasting on celestial fruits like fire dates and pears, and divine medicines of jade mushrooms and stone marrow, disdaining all mortal food. They repeatedly cleanse sacred stones before arriving at the shallow waters of Penglai, the Isle of Immortals, to celebrate a perfected being's longevity.

The birthday scene unfolds: auspicious clouds coil beneath palace eaves as the Solar Deity (Donghuang) dispels the morning winds. Nine-colored auroras illuminate Penglai's palaces while immortal attendants bear qilin-drawn chariots, manifesting the profound mysteries of the Dao. While mere sixty years pass in the mortal world, the immortals have already caressed bronze statues witnessing all antiquity. Golden halls remain untouched by dust, and jade groves outshine earthly vegetation. The light of longevity merges with heaven and earth, its celestial mechanism revolving like the cosmic balance (Tianjun), preserving the eternal youth of this pure capital.

Later, the Elder of Western Cliffs witnesses bamboo shoots several feet tall in his quiet hermitage, composing verses: "In winter's depth, dormant vitality gathers momentum, embracing the supreme principles of Dao. When spring yields to summer, they break earth with intricate roots displaying nature's craftsmanship. Amid wild grasses they rise abruptly, unfolding leaves with vigorous elegance." A Daoist adept visits, and the shoots transform into azure-robed attendants. Their hollow stems contain earth-shrinking magic—traversing ten thousand miles like riding the wind—while shielding tender shoots from worldly contamination. "When your cultivation matures," they promise, "this power shall let you wander the Six Directions (Liube) without bounds."

Concluding with Feng Quan's teachings on cosmic origins: "In primordial chaos before division, heaven and earth coexisted—all dimensions contained within. The Primordial Celestial Sovereign (Yuanshi Xuhuang) established the cosmic axis, where Mount Kunlun's pillar upholds the celestial canopy above and anchors the terrestrial axis below." Its summit holds majestic palaces while its depths rotate the Northern Dipper's mechanism (Xuanji), with jade peaks transcending all material forms.

This passage from the Yunshan Ji depicts the transcendent realm of Daoist practitioners and their profound communion with nature. Standing atop the legendary Mount Guye (abode of immortals) and sacred Mount Taihua (one of the Five Sacred Peaks), the cultivator gazes down upon lesser peaks that appear insignificant. Their skin glows with crystalline purity like ice and snow, while their mind mirrors the clarity of deep mountain springs, radiating brilliance akin to the sun and moon. Unaffected by the vicissitudes of time—whether oceans turning to fields or mulberry groves transforming—they transcend temporal boundaries, showing no signs of aging, aspiring only to eternal youth like the immortal mountains themselves.

The poem describes peach blossoms blooming defiantly in winter’s depths, an anomaly rich with symbolism. Though all things follow their ordained cycles of growth and decay, this peach tree’s untimely flowering conceals a deeper mystery: while frost withers ordinary plants, it alone flourishes in splendor. The Daoist, drawn to this extraordinary quality, transplants it to the Cave of Eternal Spring (a sacred site for cultivation), where it bears celestial fruit every three millennia—a rarity unseen in the mortal world.

The poet reflects on how the Creator toys with humanity as though molding clay, recalling the chaos of war that once shattered homes and scattered loved ones. Though temporary peace has come, life remains rootless, adrift in foreign lands. The "karmic fire-pit" metaphorizes worldly afflictions, urging awakening before it’s too late—only by cultivating the Mysterious Pass (the pivotal aperture linking body and cosmos in Daoist practice) can one attain longevity.

The closing verses reminisce about days spent with fellow cultivator Boyu at Purple Peak (a renowned Daoist mountain): discussing the Dao amid clouds and mist, sharing heartfelt words in lofty pavilions, oblivious to weariness; wandering hand in hand through autumn winds. Every line brims with yearning for unfettered spiritual freedom and penetrating insight into life’s impermanence.

This passage comes from Ji Zhizhen's Yunshan Ji (Cloud Mountain Collection) of the Yuan Dynasty, embodying the Daoist ideal of transcendent reclusion. Here's a layered modern interpretation:

The practitioner's mindset during travels: The text describes watching a friend depart under the setting sun, with a promise to reunite at Crane Mountain (a Daoist sacred peak). Life's encounters flow unpredictably like water, while fate rises and falls like a whirling dust devil. The mist-shrouded southwestern marshes stir the heart. The author realizes life's ups and downs follow the Dao's natural course—our movements cannot be forced by human will.

Metaphors for cultivation: Ordinary minds are as rigid as carpenter's squares, while Daoist hearts remain perfectly round like compasses. Though separated by miles, practitioners share the same moonlight, their spirits without the slightest separation. Through "flying spirit" (a Neidan state of astral projection), they commune effortlessly in wordless harmony. When roaming with heaven and earth, how could separation exist? Soaring together on the wind, what doubts remain? When the Three Pure Ones (Sanqing) meet, their celestial grace becomes palpable.

Critique of worldly attachments: True cultivators dwell securely without clinging to dwellings, transcending material impermanence. Those who occupy houses without inner peace differ little from shackled prisoners. Those who disdain cloud-wreathed hermitages while exhausting themselves building houses will see their efforts decay. Authentic practitioners recite scriptures, drink jade dew (symbolizing alchemical nourishment), attain silent realization, and transcend the six dusts (sensory attachments) to soar beyond the three realms.

Personal cultivation attitude: The author temporarily resides in a temple, indifferent to surroundings, befriending clouds as if repaying karmic debts from past lives. Where the heart rests peacefully, worldly fame cannot entangle. His naturally cool detachment inevitably draws sideways glances from mundanes. He jests about suffering "profound mystery sickness" (a playful term for mystical obsession)—this deep-rooted devotion defies curing. Refusing self-imposed shackles or clever stratagems, he lets auspicious winds flutter his robe while wandering freely with staff in hand, roaming like an eternal student of the Way.

Reclusive life: Mountain solitude suits his temperament perfectly—worldly affairs go unheeded. Friends come and go by chance; interactions with novices retain childlike simplicity. Though neighbors may share walls, years pass without visits. He sees through society's icy indifference and watery superficiality. Patched robes and simple meals bring no hardship. Unfettered by cares, he finds joy in self-contained contentment.

Philosophy of form and spirit: Clinging to the physical body invites disaster; forgetting self brings freedom. This seemingly intimate flesh will eventually return to dust—how much more so external possessions? Heaven and earth spawn countless phenomena, all trapped in restless bondage. Since all follows predestined patterns, why force outcomes? Doubts dissolve naturally when we release them repeatedly. Don't be imprisoned by illusory forms—become truly liberated. With mind empty yet serene, roam alongside creation itself. Making no demands on life, let it unfold spontaneously. Transcending worldly turbulence, purified within and without, this timeless carefree state endures forever.

The Cloud Mountain Anthology employs rich imagery to express the Daoist practitioner's transcendence of worldly turmoil and pursuit of pristine nature.

The first passage depicts the serene realm of an autumn night with the bright moon hanging high, contrasting with the hypocrisy and chaos of mundane life. The practitioner faces criticism whether secluding indoors or venturing outside amidst vulgar urban glamor. Every action invites slander—only by maintaining inner clarity can one see through worldly disputes as mere obstinate opinions. Upon realizing the profound truth of Chongxuan (the Daoist concept of transcending dualities), one becomes like the solitary moon, complete and self-sufficient, liberated from the cycle of life and death.

The second passage humorously recounts the clumsiness of early cultivation. Like rancid meat attracting flies, the novice invites gossip, or like merchandise awaiting sale, bound and unliberated. Later, understanding worldly shock is akin to birds trapped in cages or noble steeds restrained, even Yu the Great’s flood control was but nature’s play. True purity requires no praise, just as the phoenix soars unbothered by the owl’s screech.

The third passage elucidates the mystery of the "Dharma Body" (Fashen, the ontological manifestation of Dao). The Chongxuan Dharma Body permeates all things—a single speck of dust contains the cosmos. Though beings differ in form, they share the same origin, like fish and shrimp dwelling in the same sea. Tragically, sentient beings remain bound by form, trapped in samsara. Sages establish countless methods for salvation, yet the world remains lost in delusion.

The final "Gourd Heaven" (Hutian, a Daoist celestial realm) passage paints an idealized cultivation paradise. This pure, refreshing realm bridges the mortal and divine, with pavilions leaning against azure skies and misty mountains. Southern winds dispel summer heat, evoking Zhuangzi and Huizi’s philosophical debates. From lofty towers, one sees murmuring streams, wild cranes at ease, and willow branches swaying. The host’s open heart needs no wine to taste true joy—embodying a realm beyond worldly attachments.

These passages from the Yunshan Ji (Cloud Mountain Anthology) embody profound Daoist insights into life's illusory nature and spiritual transcendence. The opening section depicts an adept attaining elevated consciousness after consuming Polygonatum (a medicinal herb used in Daoist cultivation), as if arriving at the "Land of Nothingness" (Zhuangzi's utopian realm), immersed in supreme joy unknown to ordinary people. The celestial domain ruled by the Emperor of Eastern Florescence (a Daoist immortal) stands in stark contrast to the mundane world.

The text then employs Zhuangzi's butterfly dream allegory, suggesting daytime wakefulness is but a dream, while nighttime dreams are dreams within dreams. Human existence resembles a cosmic jest—indistinguishable between butterfly and philosopher. The wealth and status gained in Handan's inn prove as fleeting as the time needed to cook millet. Time flies like the Weaver Girl's golden shuttle, yet few perceive the emptiness of all phenomena. Only those who attain the Dao penetrate the Profound Mystery (the supreme truth beyond being and non-being), recognizing life's dreamlike essence. They refuse to chase hollow fame in the red dust, ultimately returning to immortal palaces wreathed in five-colored clouds.

When mourning the Desireless Sage (Wuyu Zhenren), the verses portray this Longxi elder (an adept from Gansu) contemplating worldly affairs for eighty-six years before merging into cosmic stillness like a yellow crane vanishing into the void, reuniting with the Celestial One (the primordial source). The luminous pearl (symbolizing the original spirit) returns to its true nature, leaving behind moonlit emptiness in vacant halls.

The concluding passages reveal cosmic truths through allegory: all beings resemble puppets in a shadow play, manipulated by Primordial Chaos (the universe's embryonic state) to enact joys and sorrows. Life and death spin like cartwheels; kalpic cycles resemble filling cities with mustard seeds—yet mortals forge their own Avici Hell amid karmic flames. Only through supreme awakening can one escape samsara, realizing liberation depends not on external pursuits but rectifying the fundamental mind.

The farewell verses for fellow adepts Lu Caiqing and Fan Daolu (Daoist titles) adopt the untrammeled tone of wild cranes and drifting clouds: You ride forth on your steed while I contemplate in stillness; after autumn rain clears, cool breezes brush grass sandals and wooden staff. Journeying now to Western Mountain's sublime vistas—might we truly share this transcendence? The spring farewell during the guichou year carries the distinctive serenity and detachment of Daoist wisdom.

The Yunshan Ji (Cloud Mountain Collection) presents a series of poems expressing a cultivator's reflections on life and philosophical contemplation.

The first poem depicts the fleeting reunion and subsequent parting with a friend. Having only recently become acquainted with limited conversation, they must separate again all too soon. The poet watches his friend ride a swift horse northwest into the distance, dust swirling in its wake. Though the physical distance may be short, meeting again proves difficult. Gazing at the bright moon, he realizes this same moonlight illuminates countless households. While he himself dwells in mountain seclusion, he anticipates his friend's triumphant return after achieving worldly success.

The second poem extols the greatness of the Dao (the Way). The divine radiance of the Dao fills the boundless void, governing the fundamental origin of heaven and earth. It encompasses the cosmos without limits, yet manifests with subtle precision. All things operate through the Dao's creative transformations, and all living beings depend on its nourishment. Though the Dao never deliberately reveals itself, birds and beasts, flowers and trees all naturally follow its principles.

The third poem portrays a springtime gathering. As clouds disperse across ten thousand miles of clear sky, spring's vitality fills the "pot heaven" (a Daoist celestial realm). Dewdrops on blossoms remain pure and unstained, willow leaves sway freely without worldly attachments. Children play without care while immortal elders convene at Penglai, the isle of immortals. Revelers drink fine wine without restraint, later riding cloud-carriages in drunken bliss.

The fourth poem recounts seeking a paper quilt. Having seen through worldly affairs, the poet no longer measures gain and loss. Content with simple gruel for sustenance and patched robes for clothing, he now requests a paper quilt from wealthy households—merely for warmth during cold nights.

The fifth poem reflects on receiving the paper quilt. Layer upon layer of supple creek-bark paper resembles fresh blue damask. By day it appears like resting wild clouds; by night, wearing it feels like bathing in river moonlight. This humble quilt proves extraordinary, radiating springlike warmth. His aged body requires such comfort to pass leisurely hours by low bed and small table.

The sixth poem laments how people lose their original nature. Once-pure innate qualities become shallow as people lose their way. Chasing sensory pleasures brings only exhaustion—like using precious Sui pearls to shoot sparrows: the more trivial the pursuit, the greater the waste. When will people see through distinctions between self and objects? Only by returning to fundamental authenticity can one ride white clouds back to the immortal realms.

The seventh poem continues exploring material desires' emptiness. Accumulating gold and treasure only invites disaster, while useless "scattered wood" avoids harm. Jade requires cutting from rough stone; pearls demand opening oyster shells. True sages prefer deep valley reclusion, understanding external things as illusory. Yet attaining this state proves difficult—the profound key cannot be grasped lightly.

This Cloud Mountain Anthology contains numerous poetic reflections by practitioners of the Dao, revealing the transcendent spiritual realm of Daoist cultivators who rise above worldly concerns in pursuit of authentic being.

The first poem, Weary of Abbotship, portrays a practitioner's state after seeing through worldly illusions: donning Daoist robes feels like wearing icy iron shackles, having realized all worldly connections are illusory, with weary eyes unable to distinguish empty flowers from phantom shadows. Mocking himself as less free than the leopard of South Mountain, more like a frog in a well. All he desires is to wander with staff in hand for ten years, losing himself between mountain and stream.

The second poem bids farewell to fellow cultivator Guo Ziyuan's northern journey: seeing him off at Tongzhou's first milestone along snowy paths. Though Daoists should live simply, worldly affairs demand attention; seeming indifference masks deep affection. Like hibernating insects suited to caves or the roc destined to soar. Though uncertain when they'll reunite in immortal realms, their spirits already roam the eight extremes.

Auspicious Snow uses snowfall to symbolize the Dao: all earthly things return to emptiness, while plum blossoms steep in moonlit soul on snowy nights. Mortal existence shifts like snowscapes, as if heaven and earth were stored in jade vessels. Hall-front snow blankets Penglai, subtly suggesting cultivation transcends even fairy mountains.

Meditative Sleep depicts samadhi states: releasing physical form to enter stillness, undisturbed by external clamor. In primordial chaos forgetting masters' reproaches, undisturbed by disciples laughing at snores. Dreaming of fish swimming marshes or butterflies among flowers—until a spark of awakening illuminates the entire cosmos.

Mid-Autumn records a cultivator's moonlit tower ascent: worldly sorrows unresolved, sitting in purity at midnight observing heaven. Suddenly clarity descends—the vast cosmos revealed, self and objects forgotten in eternal truth.

Moon's Hidden Radiance employs lunar imagery: autumn clouds obscuring moonlight make one set down the winecup in longing. The moon's perfection remains, only temporarily veiled. Human life resembles lodging at an inn—joy and sorrow inevitable visitors.

The final Awakening from Dreams explores dreaming and wakefulness: last night's dream recounted today reveals dreamer and narrator as one. Zhuangzi's butterfly dream manifests transformation's truth—like extracting wooden pegs to sever distinctions. When thought turns inward, dream and wakefulness empty as luminous awareness pierces countless kalpas.

Through natural imagery and cultivation experiences, these poems embody Daoist philosophies of "equating self and objects" and "equalizing life and death," demonstrating spiritual transcendence achieved through practice.

The Yunshan Ji (Cloud Mountain Collection) employs vivid metaphors to explore life's philosophy and the realms of Daoist cultivation.

The first poem speaks of time fleeting like a white steed glimpsed through a crack, while worldly affairs swirl like drifting willow catkins. People become entangled in material desires, confusing right and wrong, rushing about like dreamers attempting to extinguish a fire. The poet sits alone in quiet contemplation, unable to discern whether he is Zhuangzi dreaming of a butterfly or the butterfly dreaming of Zhuangzi. Wealth and rank—symbolized by "riding a crane with a golden belt"—are meaningless. Only by dwelling among pines and stones, accompanied by the bright moon and gentle breeze, listening to the harmonies of nature and observing the patterns of mountains and streams, can one transcend worldly dust.

The second poem describes how Daoist practitioners remain at ease wherever they are, for deliberate pursuit often leads to failure. Just as the ancient Chu dirges could not summon back lost souls, chasing fame and gain is ultimately futile. The poet reflects inward, saying the spiritual wind (Qi of cultivation) surges unpredictably; only by turning the gaze inward can one preserve the true light. The genuine fruits of immortality—the legendary "fire dates and pears"—are not found through external seeking, and auspicious signs like the benevolent phoenix and virtuous unicorn manifest naturally.

The third poem uses the metaphor of a battle between tiny creatures on a snail's horn (from the Zhuangzi) and ants fighting over a locust tree mound to illustrate the insignificance of human conflicts. The rise and fall of nations, the cycles of sun and moon—these follow nature's course. Gain and loss, right and wrong, arise only from human attachments. The poet laments: who can see through this illusory world spinning like a wheel?

The fourth poem depicts people lost in the chase for fame and fortune, toiling day and night in dreams, needlessly multiplying sorrows. Like wounding oneself with an "eyebrow axe" or swinging a blade at empty air (another Zhuangzi reference), when will they break free from the prison of worry and grasp the wondrous mystery of Chongxuan (the profound Daoist truth)?

The final two poems portray the life of cultivation. In the austere halls of Changchun Temple (a Daoist monastery), the poet endures extreme poverty—"broken cauldrons and empty rice pots"—yet remains content. Through serene meditation, he realizes the truth of emptiness. Recalling his reclusive days in the mountains, he savors memories of strolling with a cane through spring greenery, his heart expanding in nature's embrace. Such a state surpasses even the deliberate search for the "robe and pearl" (symbolizing the transmission of Daoist teachings).

The Cloud Mountain Collection presents these poetic passages in modern interpretation:

With ears so clear they seem unimpeded by external things, one can even hear the newly blossomed flowers adorning the fence. Eating simple meals while upholding the ways of ancient sages, spending entire years without worldly troubles—such leisure surpasses even the freedom of a roc soaring through azure skies.

Small vessels cannot contain waters both clear and turbid; human affairs push and pull in forced interactions. Holding fast to the true Dao (the Way) naturally keeps wealth at bay, sitting quietly while poverty clings like ghosts. Can all social exchanges be as sweet as fine wine? Most human interactions turn cold as frost. Better to observe the old vines west of the hermitage—they remain true to their original nature.

Birdsong and blossoms alike manifest spring's vitality, as all things contain profound mystery. Spiders and insects transform with the seasons; sparrows and doves continually shift their forms. The world's phenomena turn upside down while nature's patterns appear disordered. Amid worldly clamor, only glittering gold catches the eye—the true human heart remains unseen.

When visiting friends, maintain an iron-willed resolve and sincere gaze. Like a craftsman wielding an axe to trim clay, remove all pretense; like jade carving, preserve your essential nature. Ordinary people become deluded by demonic illusions and toyed with by ghostly schemes. True kindred spirits meet without need for words; even white-haired elders should retain their original purity.

Approach worldly affairs like treasured blades dissecting oxen—knowing you've broken free from earthly snares, who would willingly remain a puppet of wood and clay? Carving boat markings to seek a lost sword misses the moment; old fishermen raising rods by the shore become hard to find. All attachments prove to be inverted delusions; only by seeing through causality can one transcend.

Those who constantly boast of knowledge yet refuse restraint live half-lives like buzzing beehives. The demon of words disturbs the Shen (spirit); itching to display skill, they wag their tongues. Like those who cannot tell who caught the deer beneath banana leaves, or hold bamboo slips yet forget the sheep—loquaciousness invites trouble, better to seal one's mouth like a tied sack.

Having barely escaped worldly entanglements, one pitifully becomes bound by sagehood's concepts. With mental clutter unremoved, empty talk on paper surges like tidal waves. Even after awakening, shame lingers—only then realizing there exists a "land of nothingness." Henceforth retract the tongue and speak sparingly, nurturing Jing (essence) and Shen (spirit) to maintain heaven-earth harmony.

This skin-bag dashes east and west—who truly owns it? Driving hundred bones through nine orifices, yet breeding six ghosts and three worms. This lump of flesh from birth to death...

This scripture discusses the cultivation states and mental refinement of Daoist practitioners.

The first passage states that all worldly schemes and calculations are illusory. Even if genuine truth exists, explaining it to ordinary people is like speaking to the deaf. The mechanisms of creation are ever-changing, yet people live like ants in a dream, rarely encountering fellow seekers who truly perceive life and death. They grow weary of the clamor of chasing fame and profit. If the immortal Huayang Zhenren (a Daoist transcendent) could not find a kindred spirit, he would rather keep company with wild beasts. All things in the world are illusory—people only see false appearances, seldom glimpsing the truth.

The second passage speaks of reigniting the inner lamp when transmitting the Dao. When the furnace fire of alchemy extinguishes, the practitioner's awakening remains full like the new moon at night, while their innate nature rises like auspicious clouds. True cultivation does not lie in external pursuits like planting flowers in a pot, but in letting go of clinging thoughts as tangled as vines. Truth must be sought from reality, not through duplicity of heart and speech.

The third passage points out that the foundation of cultivation lies in purity and wuwei (non-action), returning to one's original nature. The principle of the great Dao is inherently complete—only by dispelling illusory worldly thoughts can one return to the source. Spiritual clarity will manifest naturally, its efficacy growing ever more evident. If one fixates on partial pursuits, it remains ultimately empty and unreal.

The fourth passage teaches that refining the mind requires cutting away distracting thoughts, making the heart as pure as the immortal fruits of fire dates and paired pears. One's innate nature is originally perfect—delusions naturally fade away. The mind should be as serene and luminous as a pearl or precious mirror, as pure as flawless jade or cold ice. Do not say the Dao's mysteries are too profound to transmit—its lively wisdom manifests at every moment.

The fifth passage describes how, after subduing the mind's demons, the inner state becomes like an era of great peace. On a tranquil night, clouds part to reveal the bright moon; in a sage's age, the seas are calm and rivers clear. This surpasses dreaming of the idyllic land of Huaxu (a Daoist utopia) and need not be confined to the tiny realm of a mustard seed. The pure innate nature never decays—it is like a luminous jewel containing boundless radiance.