Gazing at Mount Huang, oh, so lofty and steep,
I see it touch the sky with verdant hues deep.
Its myriad peaks, oh, bizarre and so strange,
Dazzling in endless change, both dim and in range.
The Cinnabar Spring, oh, atop the high crest,
The White Dragon below, oh, with power possessed.
It plunges into a deep pool, a hundred feet sheer,
At night it gleams with a light, crystal-clear.
The mountain springs frolic, oh, in playful delight,
Where serpents and vipers sit hidden from sight.
The summer wears on, oh, with never a rain,
The farmers lose hope, and the deer feel the pain.
The crops, lush and dense, oh, across the wide field,
Wither and die, with no harvest to yield.
They plead their deep sorrow, oh, at the sacred shrine,
With offerings laid out, both fragrant and fine.
The shamans boast loudly, oh, in turn they proceed,
Where dragons lie coiled, oh, imperial peace they concede.
Gathering clouds, oh, return to the ninefold sky,
Commanding the Thunder God, oh, to make lightning fly.
The Lord of Clouds goes ahead, oh, to clear the way,
Scolding the Rain Master, oh, to pour down like a spray.
I have come here, oh, from the lands east of the river,
With empty stone mortars and jars that but shiver.
The towns are deserted, oh, deep in the vale,
The double-leafed gate, oh, is shut without fail.
In straw raincoats we toil, oh, so diligent and true,
Watching the sun and the stars for a clue.
A peck or a pint of grain, oh, cannot fill our need,
We'll fill the ravines, oh, in lonely despair indeed.
My office is lowly, oh, what can I seek?
My duty's flood and drought, oh, with worry I'm meek.
I pray for the clouds, oh, and also the rain,
That Huang's fields forever, oh, may fertile remain.