Feng Qi Zhuo Li · The Waterside Pavilion Hides Its Edge

The clear soul wanders loose; the stream's shade is like bleached silk; the summer heat dies in misty weeds. The old man of the mountain strains his wine; the new green brew sets the body's workings in order. He would press an open stratagem half into place, tapping a go stone — great skill in an idle game. Sick of the soft music, the hidden edge dances wildly, and the men of ink give chase.

A blunt arrow pierces the road's dead end; following the clean places, he means to seize the year's business, brief as a drifting cloud. In the water village, a baited hook; across the Five Sacred Mountains, room for a fine steed to run. He demands the altars of the eight wastes, parts the rivers and seas — great order, great plenty. A wrath of a thousand jun grinds down the parasite clerks and thunders out its grand design.