English Rendering
Since Boya’s art was lost to time,
His broken strings found none to climb.
Who knew after his highest song,
A strain more rare would come along?
Peaks layering peaks, streams crystal-clear—
Their rival motions crash and veer.
Yet your pure prose needs no outdoors,
All scenes alive behind closed doors.
Mists and snows fill your breast’s hold,
Orchids pile in your lap’s fold.
Moonlight on jade-green pools takes shape,
A Kunlun-jade without escape.
First, you sang ‘Spring Sunlight’ bright—
Dead wood flushed with young buds’ light.
Then ‘White Snow’ chills your tongue—
At once, clouds freeze where notes are flung.
Thus we learn Creation’s source
Contracts, expands at heart’s discourse.
Such writing’s rare; its cleansing power—
Could ink-stained sleeves ever devour?
Let me stitch these words in silk,
To wear close as eternal milk.