Pure Yang moves through the four seasons, yet its vigor of spirit is no more.
Sun and fire swallow and spew each other, the forces of Heaven and Fire combine anew.
Dark Ming loses its proper abode, trembling, it seizes the reins of power.
I journey through the southeastern wilds, dazed as if steeped in strong wine.
Joyful to meet the tall green woods, their vines and leaves can shelter and reflect.
Just sighing at Heaven's lofty height, its jade-like hue stretches ten thousand miles, pure.
Suddenly startled by western hills' clouds, from a hair's tip a mirror is born.
In a moment, richly they gather, drop by drop flying rain bursts forth.
Soughing, they gradually support each other, how vast the downpour becomes!
Accumulated Yin is like a hidden army, its formation long since spied upon.
Seizing the moment, it emerges from dark voids, striving fiercely, essence vies with vigor.
Across the sky it pursues the Fire Officer, solemnly rectifying the fire's command.
Its majesty imposed, all Heaven and Earth follow, piercing cold, its demeanor upright.
Men have no scorching, vexing worries; ice melts, the world's affliction is cured.
Must it wait for snow to blanket the woods? Already it presses the Vermilion Bird askew.
Heaven's elite troops in the south, miasmic dampness and disaster can be warded off.
They vie in hardship, seize spear and halberd, deploy cunning, search out trenches and traps.
To reap success should be now; slaughter and conquest follow Heaven's proper course.
Moreover, they speak of barley's auspicious sign, already feel the village lanes rejoice.
Singing loudly, I knock on my carriage shaft, offering praise to the Son of Heaven's sagehood.