《雲山集》Vol. 6

The Yunshan Ji (Cloud Mountain Collection) is a series of poems composed by the Yuan dynasty Daoist master Ji Zhizhen (Daoist name: Perfected One Who Knows Constancy). Written in the Taichangyin lyric meter, these eight poems express transcendence over worldly strife and the pursuit of spiritual cultivation.

The first poem depicts an extraordinary experience during late-night meditation: in a moonlit chamber purified by the "Soul-Returning Incense" (used in Daoist rituals), the practitioner enters a state of selfless unity with all things, as if dwelling in Qingwei Heaven (one of the Thirty-Six Heavens in Daoism). Seeing through the illusions of past and present affairs—like lost lambs—the poet observes how people chase fame and profit on battlegrounds, utterly defenseless.

The second portrays the life of a recluse: amid mist-shrouded mountains in the company of gibbons and cranes, far from the mundane world. With a cinnabar crucible (alchemical furnace), he refines rare ingredients like "phoenix fat and dragon flakes" to produce the Jade Blossom Elixir (a Daoist alchemical substance), wandering freely through the Eternal Spring paradise as an immortal of Fanghu (mythical floating mountain-islands).

The third poem speaks of breaking worldly chains: human turmoil feels like a nightmare; awakening reveals the peril of one's situation. Resolutely casting off shackles, the poet dons straw sandals and a rain cloak, drifting freely with clouds and streams, no longer entangled in human disputes.

The fourth satirizes the pursuit of fame and gain: people fight for profit and reputation like reckless tide-riders, yet a hundred years vanish into dust. Looking back at life’s journey, only the eternal mountains and rivers remain.

The fifth criticizes obsession with worldly affairs: white-haired and still bound by trivialities, they rush down wrong paths like soulless husks. Yet just a single stream and cloud could bring liberation—yet the deluded cover their ears and deceive themselves.

The sixth allegorizes the loss of innate nature: humans are born lost, rolling in mud like madmen, unaware they carry a luminous pearl (symbolizing original Dao-nature). Despite enduring storms and trials, they never find their spiritual home.

The seventh exposes the illusion of fame and wealth: the Creator sets these snares, yet fools struggle and lose their true abode. Having tasted life’s fickleness, those clinging to attachments remain trapped in suffering rebirth.

The eighth paints an ideal of practice: neither monk nor immortal-seeking, just a thatched hut or two beside white stones and clear springs. A stick of incense, a cup of tea, purifying the Three Dantian (upper, middle, and lower energy centers), silently contemplating the Daodejing verse on the "Valley Spirit that never dies"—until, effortlessly, the moon rounds the pines: a perfect expression of Daoism’s "natural non-action" (Wuwei) in cultivation.

The poems from the Yunshan Ji depict the spiritual realm and natural insights of Daoist practitioners. Let me explain them one by one:

The ninth poem describes the life of a cultivator: True seekers of the Dao pursue purity and emptiness, unshackled by fame or wealth. Like dewdrops rolling freely on lotus leaves, they are content with just a bowl of gruel for sustenance and a patched robe for covering. They yearn for the carefree existence of Huaxu Kingdom (the Daoist utopia), transcending all material attachments.

The tenth poem speaks of seeing through worldly impermanence: Only by realizing all phenomena vanish in the blink of an eye can one break free from confinement. There’s no need to obsess over visiting the Three Sacred Mountains or Five Peaks (Daoist holy sites). Carrying just elixirs and a staff of goosefoot wood, companions of the Way appear everywhere, allowing free wandering within the profound mysteries of the Dao.

Partridge in the Sky paints a post-rain paradise: After the rain clears, fresh lotus leaves cradle scattered dewdrops while a pure spring flows beyond the dusty world. Drunk, reclining on white boulders, discussing abstruse truths amid mountain hues and watery vistas. When a novice asks about mundane affairs, the response is only a smile pointing to willow catkins adrift—a metaphor for life’s fleeting nature.

The second poem critiques delusion: A painted cake cannot sate hunger; carving a boat to seek a lost sword (symbolizing rigid thinking) is futile. Obsessively tallying others’ debts or waiting idly for luck are equally foolish. Ancient texts, if their essence remains ungrasped, are like mistaking chaff for luminous pearls. Only by relinquishing all fixations can one experience the ineffable wonder.

The third poem reveals lessons from flora: A garden brims with competing blossoms, yet the East Wind (hinting at the Dao’s law) never lets splendor last. Watching petals scatter, catkins swirl, and unripe fruits veil in mist, nature itself teaches impermanence. Practitioners quietly observe branches’ cycles, contemplating creation’s mysteries.

The fourth poem sings of summer heart-cultivation: Hibiscus blooms at dawn and wilts by dusk; lotuses stand poised with dew. Though sweat pours in scorching heat, reciting the Yellow Court Scripture in a tranquil chamber brings cool serenity. Observing heaven and earth’s transformations reveals life’s restless futility.

The fifth poem sketches autumn’s Daoist rhythm: Golden chrysanthemums by the fence align with creation’s flow; insects chant autumn’s tale. Withered lotuses, bleached reeds, and crimson leaves unveil mountains and waters’ true face. Delighted at the Three Corpses’ (malevolent spirits within the body) demise, cultivators purify their Scarlet Palace (heart center) through night-long practice.

The sixth poem narrates winter’s hidden truth: In the long night of withering, heaven and earth urge return to the source. The Earth Pivot stands firm; the Celestial Gate rests secure—signaling nature’s cyclical renewal.

Seventh Verse:

The true immortals of Penglai (one of the Three Divine Mountains in the Eastern Sea) long ceased to concern themselves with mortal affairs. Behold the rolling yellow sands—seas change into mulberry fields as worldly matters shift like children’s games. Daoist cultivators keep their mountain gates tightly shut; even young novices dare not lightly open those mist-veiled doors. Seated silently on the azure stone altar, my spirit soars to the northern celestial realms, arriving in a daze at the Jade Capital (the highest Daoist heaven). Here, fragrant mists coil and purple qi rises, where coiling dragons and phoenixes gather with immortal companions. Sipping celestial wine from a jasper cup, drunk on divine nectar, I ride the clear wind down from the nine heavens.

Eighth Verse:

The Creator toys with mortals like a mischievous child—the human realm is but a stage for puppet shows. People play at gods and ghosts, leaping about like marionettes, scurrying day and night like soulless corpses. What do they seek in such frenzy? Nothing but fame and profit, tearing at each other like bluebottles and termites. Blindly chasing sensual pleasures, their lives dissolve into farce—clap your hands and laugh, for all ends in emptiness.

Ninth Verse:

Mortals, bound by a thousand invisible cords, remain oblivious while straining for what lies beyond their lot. The heart, originally free of troubles, insists on wrestling for supremacy in the clamor of crowds. Clinging to the "illusion of self" (a Buddhist term for ego-attachment) multiplies sorrows; meddling in others’ affairs breeds fresh worries. Hair turns white before achievements bloom, fragile as gossamer in the wind. Yet release these grasping thoughts, return to your true nature—and ten thousand vexations melt like snow.

Tenth Verse:

To dwell in effortless spontaneity is true freedom—the dusty world holds no claim over me. Schemes and calculations only entangle one in fame’s net; greed bites the hook and swallows lies. Beyond material cares, I keep company with clouds and streams—why exhaust the mind with petty stratagems? Lying on sedge mats, pillowed by white stones, I watch wild birds and mountain apes trade playful glances.

Eleventh Verse:

The lost wander endlessly, refusing to turn back—the more you expound profound truths (Daoist mysteries), the deeper their confusion grows. Should I meet the Elder of Shangqiu (a legendary sage) on this path, I’d cast off this mortal shell without hesitation. Early or late, cultivation follows destiny—who can fathom its hidden mechanism? The east wind need not herald spring—peach and plum blossoms burst forth unbidden.

Twelfth Verse:

Human cunning grows ever more sinister, squandering time without remorse. Endless plots breed boundless gloom; every anxiety gnaws at body and soul. Hearts heavy, temples gray too soon, yet still they chase hollow glory. Their mouths spew hedgehogs from a sack (words bristling with malice), their eyes see only gold littering the earth (metaphor for worldly greed).

Thirteenth Verse:

Rein in the restless mind, forget worldly ties—meet others with cool detachment. All mortal gatherings must disperse; transcend possessions, and clarity dawns. Silent green mountains, chill murmuring streams, the moon and scattered stars embroider the night. The pine wind, like a knowing friend, plays celestial melodies for me each evening.

(Fourteen) All things in the world clamor and resound, yet people remain lost in dreams of fame and profit. What meets the eye is but illusory dust—even the footprints left by ancients are mere drifting clouds. Where are the merits and honors of past lives now? The bright moon is obscured by chaotic clouds; all the clamorous words of this world should be cast aside. Drink deeply of the flowing nectar wine and lie drunk for three thousand days—why concern yourself with the sun's relentless rising and setting?

(Fifteen) The cycle of rebirth is like trading flesh and bones, coming and going, struggling in vain within the scorching cave of samsara. A hundred years cannot wear away the burdens of karma, nor can a thousand cycles cleanse the scars of sin. Desires surge like waves, thoughts clash like blades, binding oneself with ropes of attachment into a fortress of sorrow. Pouring muddy water over the heart, yet babbling absurdities about universal peace.

(Sixteen) Time gallops like a white colt, urging us relentlessly—how much remains of this fleeting life when counted on fingers? The city of karmic consciousness, small as a mustard seed, is nearly full, yet the clouds obscuring the mirror of the heart cannot be swept away. Merit and sin vie for supremacy, but heroes in the end all turn to ashes. Toying with this illusory play, yet the world remains deaf, unable to be called back.

(Seventeen) One who should have been a recluse in the mountains is instead driven by worldly affairs, never finding peace. Friends crowd around, pushing one from one's place, like being forced up a high pole by the beat of drums. Without true skill, how can one turn freely? How can one be at ease amid others' laughter? Good intentions bear bitter fruit—warm breath exhaled turns cold in an instant.

(Eighteen) The mystery of the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) is like a bright mirror; all things in heaven and earth are but reflections within it. Within a person's shadow lies another shadow; within the name of a thing hides yet another empty label. Mistaking illusory externals for reality, calculating emptiness in dreams—the luminous nature is toyed with by this play of illusions. In life, one is confused, taking the false for real; in dreams, one struggles fiercely over emptiness.

(Immortal by the River, First) The world scrambles for wealth and honor, but only the Daoist willingly embraces purity and poverty. In purity and gentle weakness, the heart finds peace; passing idle days in accordance with nature. The mind is like an ancient mirror, bright and clear, untouched by dust. When cultivation and virtue reach perfection, one naturally attains spiritual transcendence, breaking free from the Three Realms (Desire, Form, and Formlessness) to freely admire the spring scenery of the seasons.

(Second) Time is ruthless, flashing by like lightning—human life cannot endure such wear. Do not linger on perilous paths ahead; leap from the thousand-zhang pit of fire onto higher ground. Seek another place of cool tranquility, calming the storms of the mundane world. Without seeking far, one arrives at the realm of carefree ease—playing the flute without holes (symbolizing Wuwei, non-action), singing the song of great peace.

(Third) [Note: The original text lacks the third poem; omitted here.]

I am but a useless man in this world, having long forgotten all manner of skills and artifices. For ten years my heart has been pure as ice and snow, sitting alone in an empty hall. The affairs of mundane life constantly come to entangle and disturb me, leaving me no peace. I can't help but think—why not seek a secluded place deep in cloud-wrapped mountains, build a thatched hut and live in reclusion? Among bamboo pavilions and pine-lined paths, the cool clarity feels even more refreshing. The bright moon shines beyond a thousand peaks, while a gentle breeze stirs the fragrance of a hundred flowers.

Fourth Poem: Brewing the immortal wine of the celestial realms—who in the mortal world knows its true flavor? A jade flask filled with emerald nectar, sipped occasionally to delight the spirit; after drinking, one's radiance is renewed and weariness forgotten. Most joyful is meeting kindred souls beyond the mundane—together we feast on fire dates and interlaced pears (legendary Daoist immortal fruits). Through multiple turns of seas becoming mulberry fields, when the day comes to return to the Penglai fairy isles, we'll surely join hands to tread the rosy clouds together.

Fifth Poem: I mock the clever words idly spoken—in the end, they're not the true Dao. Long should I have brushed the dust of thought from my tongue, sealed my lips in triple silence to transcend the sea of right and wrong. Casting aside the harassment of ten thousand demonic obstructions, in leisurely repose the spirit naturally nurtures itself. Clear breeze and bright moon come unbidden as companions; only by severing accumulated habits of countless lifetimes can one verify the original true nature.

Sixth Poem: People drown in the play of self-and-other, right-and-wrong, like puppets in a theater show. Empty fame and hollow praise clamor in their ears, yet they don't realize these are fundamentally void. Forcibly distinguishing between barbarian and Han, they rush east and west in vain. Seeing through these unrealities—like a fierce gale brushing the face, gone in an instant—why argue when yielding brings harmony? Establishing one's life needn't hinge on disputes. The real task is recognizing the master within one's own heart.

"Eternal Spring," First Poem: Dream-wandering in the Hua Xu Kingdom (Daoist utopia), I behold celestial palaces suspended midair, transcending dust. Strange fragrances drift like threads, clouds and auroras intertwine. In the vast numinous realm, eternal daylight shines—but how many know of it? I wish to share this realization with you: spring's hues never fade.

Second Poem: Birth and death, samsara—since ancient times like flowing water. Urgently we should make early plans for practice. That primordial spark of numinous light was never lost; refining the true body brings longevity matching heaven and earth.

Third Poem: The jasper trees and jade forests in Penglai's sea of clouds were planted by true immortals, where rainbow luan birds and golden phoenixes come and go in greeting. Speaking of this to the mundane world finds no believers—their karmic ties thick as ox hair, all dreaming the Huai'an dream (metaphor for illusory visions).

"The Fisherman's Pride": Cast off the shackles of worldly sentiment, lay down ten thousand ties and suddenly feel lightness. Sever dust-bound connections, forget the fickleness of human affairs—being ignored by others brings unexpected ease. That original spark of numinous light ever dwells in peace—this realm is perfectly bright everywhere, why seek externally? At leisure I sit alone in my small studio, where clear breeze and bright moon keep me natural company.

The poems from the Yunshan Ji express the mindset of Daoist practitioners who see through worldly illusions and pursue spiritual freedom.

The first poem states: How could those truly seeking liberation be trapped by mundane transactions? All the tricks of pretending to summon spirits are empty illusions—why cling to rituals like offerings and incense? Daoist cultivators may appear foolish and unskilled, yet they regard worldly splendor as mere dreams. Maintaining inner clarity, they can't even be bothered with social niceties. They cherish this tranquility, indifferent to others' opinions. After reading the Nanhua Jing (the Zhuangzi), they feel even more convinced that fame and profit are illusory. In old age, they fear nothing more than being disturbed by trivial matters.

The second poem uses a theater troupe as a metaphor: Just as actors smear ash and powder to play gods and ghosts, the struggle for fame and gain in the human world is child’s play. Those so-called cultivation methods (葛藤, referring to spiritual techniques) are self-imposed shackles—look at the puppets (五田子) on stage; once their strings snap, they can’t move. Why put on airs? In truth, people are driven by desires without realizing it.

The third poem says: Like the pearls of Hepu that vanish due to greed (an allusion to how pearls disappeared when corrupt officials ruled), fishing in the Red Waters is futile. When eyes are blinded by weeds (蒿目蓬心, symbolizing delusion), no effort to save others can withstand towering waves. Schemes for glory (槐里图勋, dreams of officialdom) and secret arts from pillow books (referring to Daoist texts) all seem dull before true mystery. Better to let go of attachments (木鹅, symbolizing fixation) and retire like the Four Elders of Shangshan, drinking in seclusion. Facing clear waters, one doesn’t need clouds and mist as bait to fish.

The fourth poem speaks of the essence of the Dao: The Dao is already within us, ever-changing like flowing water, beyond words. Maintaining an ordinary mind is enough—why seek external techniques (婴姹, Neidan terminology)? The Dao is perfectly whole (八面玲珑元无璺罅, flawless in all aspects), a subject of endless discussion through the ages. Those who pontificate while leaning on their staffs (梧枝) are less genuine than idle chatterers. The true treasure (宝珠, symbolizing the Dao) is boundless—who could ever price it?

The fifth poem discusses the attitude of cultivation: Do not force anything; let life unfold naturally. The desire to become an immortal is itself a greater delusion. When true enlightenment comes (瑞云深处, the depths of auspicious clouds, symbolizing realization), all attachments shatter. Who can comprehend this most genuine state? Even before riding the wind (ascending to immortality), one forgets the distinction between self and other. Compared to the mundane world, this freedom—like playing a stringless zither (无弦品弄, effortless harmony)—is far better. Sitting idly with the pine breeze as company surpasses the need for forced companionship.

The final poem depicts the immortal realm: The sea of clouds connects to the paradise of Yingzhou, reachable only through spiritual transformation. The abodes of immortals (紫府丹臺, purple palaces and cinnabar platforms) are unfathomably deep—even if pointed out, they remain elusive. Divine herbs and fragrant plants grow untended. Strolling under the eternal moonlight of the grotto-heavens, one waits for kindred spirits to grasp this profound truth.

Six

The original nature is pure and untainted, yet it becomes layered with the dust of worldly affairs. People chase fame and fortune as if caught in a web of desires, adrift in the vast sea of suffering. Amid the turbulent waves of craving, those who scheme and manipulate ignore the risks—only those who see through illusion and return to authenticity can reach the shore of awakening. When all dust is wiped away, the mind's innate radiance shines once more, illuminating cavernous heavens like a luminous pearl amidst rosy clouds.

Seven

Once the true awakened nature is lost, one sinks into the bitter sea of birth and death, cycling through the six realms (heaven, human, asura, animal, hungry ghost, hell). Bound by passions like a prisoner, confused by material illusions, when will liberation come? People's greed knows no end, their forms shifting endlessly through reincarnation. To escape this cycle, patience is essential. Life is fleeting—I urge all to awaken early, not to wait until death's approach to regret.

Eight

Affected gestures—a sparrow's hop, slapping one's thigh, pushing open a door with exaggerated ease—are all fragmented illusions. Those who mimic sages without understanding are like drawing a gourd from its outline, only to stray further into confusion. True awakening lies beyond words and concepts; the moment you try to articulate it, the meaning slips away. All deliberate displays are empty; only by embracing the genuine, uncontrived nature of the mind is ultimate truth realized.

Nine

Transcend the mundane, and no dust remains. In the immortal realms (hutian langyuan), cloud shadows drift lazily by the eaves. Cold moonlight soaks the air, celestial flowers never wither, and the rare fragrance of golden sandalwood (jīn dǔnòu) lingers. Immortals gather for feasts of peaches, drinking flowing nectar (liúxiá) and singing freely. In laughter, pearls and jade shimmer; dragons and phoenixes dance as they jest, pointing toward Penglai Isle, marveling at the sea's eternal transformations.

Ten

Heaven and earth are but a temporary inn; the body, a passing lodging. Time flies like a snap of the fingers, and delusive thoughts flicker like will-o'-the-wisps in the dark. A lifetime of toil is a prison—only by breaking worldly attachments can one become master of oneself. Seeing through the rise and fall of ages, why be trapped by fame and gain? Better to retreat to forests and springs, wandering free among clouds and mist.

Eleven

Only after enduring much does one return to simplicity—all actions prove illusory in the end. The flesh is but a sack of skin; scheming leaves only shame. Awakening from the great dream, the eye of wisdom (qīng yǎn) opens at last, indifferent to all things. Unbound by worldly rules, one savors mountain haze, moonlight, creek winds, and pine sighs—a carefree idler with no ties.

Twelve

Mired in the soft soil of worldly dust, the heart brims with vexation. How many good days does life hold? Toiling day after day...

[Note: The twelfth section appears incomplete in the original. The translation follows the structure and tone of the preceding verses, ending where the Chinese text breaks off.]

The poems in Yunshan Ji (Cloud Mountain Collection) employ natural imagery and life reflections to convey the Daoist ideals of transcending worldly concerns and pursuing spiritual liberation.

The first poem, praising chrysanthemums, describes how during spring and summer, when flowers compete in splendor, Heaven conceals their brilliance. Only after the season’s glamor fades do they bloom alone amidst sparse foliage, standing proud against autumn frost. Like Tao Yuanming (Tao Yuanliang), who retreated to the misty waterside, what does it matter if no one appreciates them? Fresh pines and golden chrysanthemums face each other, their natural fragrance drifting on the breeze.

The second poem depicts autumn scenery—forests of red leaves vanishing in an instant—revealing the impermanence of glory and decay. Once severed from worldly attachments, one breaks free from constraints, achieving ease of body and mind. Whether in the mortal realm or celestial heights, one may ride the wind and command Qi (vital energy), wandering carefree in all directions.

The third poem critiques human delusion. People cling to illusory bonds of kinship, like birds on the same branch scattering at dawn. Failing to see life as a puppet show, they remain entangled until sudden awakening severs the strings of confusion—only then is true liberation attained.

The fourth poem draws on nature as metaphor. Seagulls roam freely on the shore, while the useless chu tree, gnarled by nature, remains unperturbed. The Daoist cultivator, free from desire, drifts like a reed on flowing water, savoring the natural delights of wind, moon, bamboo, and plum blossoms.

The fifth poem expounds the philosophy of "one Qi (vital energy) permeating all." Whether the great roc or the tiny cicada, though forms differ, all are transformations of Heaven and Earth’s primordial Qi. The hermit in straw sandals with a gourd for food is as carefree as those clad in silks and feasting on delicacies.

The two Wuling Chun poems declare: worldly disputes are as trivial as ants battling on a snail’s horn (alluding to Zhuangzi’s "Man and Chu" parable). They urge drinking the wine of transcendence until, in drunken gaze at the sky, distinctions of east and west dissolve. These verses, rich in natural symbolism, encourage piercing through illusion to return to the original state of unbound freedom.

The poems from the Yunshan Ji depict the transcendent lifestyle and spiritual state of Daoist practitioners.

The first poem describes a hermit's mountain retreat: The calls of mountain birds seem to summon one back to nature, where beautiful forests and springs provide all that is needed. A simple thatched hut of three or four rooms is enough to dwell in, free from attachment to wealth. Amidst valleys echoing with wind and moonlit peaks, a small grotto-heaven (洞天) contains its own universe. Sitting or reclining among rocks and pines, why seek immortals elsewhere? The true celestial realm lies in this purity and natural harmony.

The second poem portrays the simplicity of cultivation: Worn-out straw sandals and a fan after autumn may seem untimely, while incense ash from a side-resting censor covers a bottomless pot—what is there to boast about? Such things belong only in idle corners, and when meeting them, one need not stir emotions. Do not blame them for being cold as frost—this is how one peacefully passes through life.

The third poem recounts an encounter with an immortal: By fortune, a true immortal arrives from beyond the sea, offering the elixir of longevity. This secret formula, passed down since antiquity, is shared only with kindred spirits of the Dao. Storing the elixir in a golden flask to mature, drinking it brings a drunken slumber lasting a thousand autumns. Even if seas turn to mulberry fields, one need not lift their head, gazing indifferently at the mayfly-like brevity of worldly life.

The three Liu Shao Qing verses expound on cultivation states:

In the stillness of night under a bright moon, the tea stove's fire slowly fades, the mind silent as cold ashes. The silk strings of an ancient zither have snapped, and incense ash solidifies into blossoms. Awake, one dreams of the Hua Xu realm (a Daoist utopia), pure as ice and jade inside and out. Auspicious Qi (气) pervades, and cinnabar clouds swirl around the Five Radiance Palaces (a celestial abode).

Those who truly understand samadhi (三昧) wipe away traces and forget words, embracing simplicity to silently align with the ancient Dao. When one's spirit connects with the sages of old, it is the season of great peace. Walking freely through Chang'an's streets, there's no need to pluck flowers or leaves—everywhere is perfect harmony, every turn reveals the Way, the mind vast as the bright moon.

The numinous nature is neither complete nor lacking—it existed before the division of heaven and earth (太易), unchanged through cosmic calamities. Once attached to form, drifting with the current makes one forget the way home, cycling through birth and death. Craving desires only invites disaster; even selling mountains of flesh cannot satisfy. When the Eye of True Dharma opens, one realizes there was never anything to grasp—liberation comes instantly.

Those who compete for fame, compare strengths and weaknesses—in the end, their struggles amount to empty toil. In the eyes of Lord Yama (the judge of the dead), all are the same. Seeing through all affairs, shattering every fixation, one moves freely in walking, standing, sitting, and lying. Before the wind, beneath the moon, by the water's edge or the cliff's left—let me be at ease and joyful.

Clad in rough robes (野服) and yellow caps, wearing straw sandals and leaning on a staff of goosefoot, one wanders unrestrained between mountains and rivers. Singing and dancing while walking or standing, discussing profound mysteries—what concern is there for kings and lords? The mind is luminous as the full moon, the Spirit Pearl (神珠, inner elixir) radiant, unobstructed throughout the sands of worlds. Leisurely looking up and down at heaven and earth, let worldly troubles scatter as they may.

Yesterday an infant, today an aged man—a hundred years flash by like lightning. This physical form of sinew, bone, flesh and blood we foolishly mistake for our true self. Striving for dominance and hoarding possessions only invites calamity, all ending in emptiness. Better to turn inward and seek our original nature—once this delusion is shattered, truth becomes clear.

("Phoenix Perching on Plane Tree") The Creator toys with mortals, yet they remain oblivious. Puppets in the theater of sensual pleasures, the rise and fall of dynasties become child's play. In the blink of an eye, the music ends and the crowd disperses—all is vanity. Blind eyes cannot perceive reality; like walking corpses chasing fame and gain, struggles over strength and weakness prove futile, merely spinning through cycles of meaningless birth and death.

Time gallops like a white steed—this hollow existence vanishes in an instant. Wasted years drowned in drunken stupor, shackled layer upon layer by emotional bonds. Numb to the point of feeling no pain from awl or needle, muddled and anxious over external things. When will these eyes finally open wide to see through this illusory dream of prosperity?

("A Twig of Mume Blossoms") The land of clouds and streams is my home, my nature delights in mountain forests, aspirations loftier than mist and rainbow. A tranquil mind has already conquered worldly splendor, letting affairs tangle like hemp fibers unperturbed. When guests arrive, no need for ceremonial tea—only plain companionship holds true meaning. Nothing at this seat is worth flaunting, save the precious cinnabar of longevity cultivation.

Jade trees in divine groves radiate extraordinary presence, silver dragons lounge lazily among cloud-veils. Immortal youths gather jasper flowers, flawless as crystalline ice-vessels. The precious cauldron's first flames kindle, slowly refining the supreme Yellow Sprouts (Daoist elixir). Men praise fine wine and delicacies, unaware this is the true taste of paradise.

Crimson clouds grace twilight's edge as closed gates dismiss visitors—mountain youths receive instruction. Fresh springwater and lively flames brew Cloud Dragon tea (immortal's brew), savoring the celestial sensation of wind rising beneath both sleeves. Sweeping away millennia of worldly dust, banishing heart-demons defies description. Hand in hand with transcendents in crystal palaces, singing atop mist-wreathed solitary peaks beneath the moon.

Summer's swelter proves unbearable, dry meditation brings no stillness. Premature snow-waves congeal into ice, summoning Xuanming (Winter God) to chill the chamber. The Northern Emperor (Water Deity) issues stern commands as Zhurong (Fire God) retreats three measures. Divine power penetrates heaven and earth—the realm of cool clarity manifests naturally.

The spirit rides this gentle breeze back to the fabled Penglai and Yingzhou Isles (legendary immortal mountains beyond the eastern seas). The fifth verse states: The world's rights and wrongs flow effortlessly from the tongue, where topsy-turvy absurdities abound—where in both immortal and mortal realms can one find true refuge? All phenomena arise rootless, coming and going in emptiness. Only that single point of luminous awareness (one's primordial nature) is vast beyond measure, embracing all past and present without exception. No need for the ancient shaman Wu Xian to perform rites, nor for diviner Du Quan to cast lots—demonic illusions cannot escape the mirror's clear reflection.

To the tune of "Moon Over West River" it sings: Chasing lost sheep with bamboo slips (symbolizing losing one's essence in textual obsession) requires no interrogation, nor should one delve deep into covering plantains to find deer (a Zhuangzi metaphor for pursuing illusions). All mortals dream within dreams, layering delusion upon delusion. Only the perfectly rounded nature possessing Yuan-Heng-Li-Zhen (the four virtues of the I Ching representing cosmic order) remains subtle and ineffable. In the blink of an eye one may awaken, yet words fail to capture it—every spontaneous gesture reveals its marvelous function.

The second verse describes: The dharma body pervading space embraces all existence, the entire trichiliocosm (Buddhist term for the boundless universe) contained within. This isn't some muddled generalization—it resembles Kuang Qu (a Zhuangzi character) forgetting his words mid-speech, or the physiognomist Ji Xian admitting defeat. Try grasping the mystery before it emerges from the ancestral gate (the source of Dao), and you'll startle awake from the Southern Branch dream (metaphor for illusory life).

The third verse explains: Within self-nature shine the sun and moon (symbolizing innate wisdom), the true vessel upon the sea of suchness. Though countless schools proclaim their teachings, they lead people astray. Passing the lamp flame (symbolizing lineage transmission) without understanding golden-vessel wine (the profound truth) is inferior to first tasting emerald wine (direct realization). The Boshan censer (renowned Han dynasty incense burner) kindles pre-kalpa (cosmic dawn) fragrances, yet nasal contemplation (Buddhist visualization) cannot fathom this mystery.

The fourth verse declares: Transcending form's crisscrossing marvels, beyond physicality—left and right are all myself. Heaven and earth brim with tathata (Buddhist term for thusness), the formless image like an old friend at dusk. When the mind rests peacefully, celestial light arises spontaneously; the empty chamber (from Zhuangzi's "empty room generates brightness") houses the eternal sovereign (the Dao-mind). Apply effort where no effort exists, steadily steering the spirit boat homeward.

The fifth verse observes: True Dao isn't found in fist gestures, nor requires winks or eyebrow signals. The original luminous awareness needs tranquility—adding ornamentation only stains it. Don't cling to meditation cushions or bamboo chairs, nor obsess over ivory bookmarks (scriptural texts). When this mind settles into stillness, it penetrates all dimensions, proving its wondrous function everywhere.

The sixth verse depicts: The vast and minute permeate all things—soaring birds, diving fish, plants and sentient beings. Heaven and earth rise and fall ceaselessly—who, pray tell, drives this motion? The wondrous principle circulates independently unchanged; the True Sovereign (Dao-substance) remains unfathomable yet eternally present. Every needle and blade of grass contains the whole—piercing emptiness reveals the crack (symbolizing awakening to true nature).

The seventh verse concludes: The Dao's majestic qi fills heaven and earth, its unseen power penetrates metal and stone. Myriad forms float within it—past and present never differ. Kneading clay into suspended shapes (the phenomenal world), yet the lost pearl (everyone's inherent Buddha-nature) remains unseen.

The Yunshan Ji (Cloud Mountain Collection) presents several poetic passages that elucidate the realms of spiritual cultivation and the principles of nature.

The eighth poem reveals that human awakening nature (intrinsic enlightenment) is inherently complete, yet ordinary people are often deluded by illusory sights perceived through the eyes. The so-called eight consciousnesses (a Buddhist term referring to the cognitive functions of sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, mind, etc.) and six roots (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind) are ultimately illusory. By shattering these veils of confusion, one realizes that the Dao (the Way) has always been fundamentally interconnected.

The ninth poem teaches that cultivation need not cling to external forms like alchemical furnaces and vessels. The true key lies in dissolving the six desires and seven emotions (various cravings and passions), allowing the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) and four emblems to harmonize naturally. Like the radiant Crimson Water Divine Pearl (a metaphor for the Golden Elixir), the result shines with luminous brilliance.

The tenth poem laments the fleeting nature of human life—days and months pass like a shuttle. Striving for fame and profit is futile. Even eloquence as ceaseless as a flowing river cannot escape the judgment of Yama, the King of Hell. Why engage in such meaningless struggles?

The Wushan Yiduan Yun (A Stretch of Clouds Over Witch Mountain) lyrics depict the realms of Daoist practitioners:

The first lyric portrays the state of serene illumination—as tranquil as a mountain cradling the moon, as free as clouds drifting from a gorge. Neither clinging nor obstructing, one naturally communes with the Heavenly Dao. The true divine ruler (Zhenzai), though silent and wordless, illuminates the entire cosmos.

The second lyric describes an immortal realm: Dharma rain nourishes sacred mountains, numinous breezes caress auspicious herbs, and grotto-heavens abound in pure coolness. Immortals adorned with jade pendants and golden bells roam the depths of five-colored auspicious clouds, sipping jade nectar, intoxicated in the bliss of the Great Peace.

The third lyric employs spring’s renewal as a metaphor for the Dao’s natural workings. Spring fills heaven and earth; withered wood revives—all manifestations of the Dao’s wondrous function. Without deliberate carving, all things flourish naturally. Why bother questioning the Spring God (Dongjun)?

The fourth lyric depicts the refreshing realm of summer: lush trees flourish, round lotuses exude fragrance, and the Creator (Huagong) gathers all beauty within the garden. The pond brims with divine elegance. Though scorching heat persists, the cultivator transcends worldly concerns, finding cool serenity everywhere.

The fifth lyric paints an autumn night scene: golden winds bring crispness, the sky is crystal clear, and a lone moon like a wheel brightens the dusk. Sitting in quiet solitude surpasses worldly splendor; the true realm of the Great Void requires no celestial chariots (wind wheels) to stride effortlessly across Mount Kunlun.

The sixth lyric portrays winter: the pitch-pipe’s flying ash (an ancient method to measure solar terms) signals the return of yang energy, quietly heralding spring. The Dao nurtures all things without trace, reviving decay into new life. All beings flourish spontaneously, needing no deliberate arrangement.

The text depicts the transcendent state of a Daoist practitioner. Nongyu (the legendary immortal maiden) sings ethereal melodies while Feiqiong (another celestial maiden) performs a flower-scattering dance. Silver mists permeate heaven and earth, blurring the boundaries of the true immortal realm. Both internally and externally free from the slightest dust, the practitioner's mind becomes as clear and vast as the Taixu (the Daoist concept of cosmic origin).

Having penetrated the great matter of life and death and thoroughly comprehended the primordial origin (Yuanchu), the practitioner is no longer deluded by the alternation of day and night. Neither pretending to profound wisdom nor affecting eccentricity, the body and mind dwell in perfect ease, moving without the slightest obstruction. Only thus can one attain genuine carefree liberation (Xiaoyao). When cultivation reaches fruition, one will surely transcend the Three Realms (Desire Realm, Form Realm, and Formless Realm).

The author confesses to seldom engaging in social interactions, merely living in accordance with circumstance, indifferent to others' affection or disdain. This way of life may appear solitary, yet it embodies the very state of detachment sought by true Daoist cultivators.