Heaven divides the four seasons, cold and heat alternate in closing and opening.
Brittle glue and flowing gold—the people's life takes this as norm.
What deity is this Kan and Li, ruling a region for the Emperor?
How do you let vile ghosts run free, stealing yin and yang in their season?
Four or five brazen fellows, suddenly leaping east and west.
Each with a secret name, bringing heat or chill to men.
Some burn with torch-like fire, some blow with bellows' blast.
First chilled as standing in snow, soon scorched as probing boiling water.
From fiery isles to shaded gully—how can both share one bed?
E Bo pursues Shi Shen, left and right dividing raids.
In moments shifting winter to spring, how can furs or fans suffice?
Alternating sweats count millet grains; ice and charcoal boil my gut.
Depressed and ill at ease, the plague not yet at end.
Beyond needle or moxa's reach, mere rituals of prayer are vain.
No sacrificial beast at all, the offering rites most absurd.
Earnestly I thank you, ghosts: your scheme is truly poor.
Your gain lies in vomit and flux—how could wild greens suffice your taste?
I'm poor and lack wealth and coin; to soothe you would be reckless strife.
Come, have you not heard? Scholars are a stubborn breed.
Though Du Fu was gaunt and old, he blushed to serve new adornments.
Han Yu, somewhat sly and shrewd, tried all herbs foul and fragrant.
When the body's ill, words come easy—many sharp reproaches fly.
I'll follow this example, striving to compose new verse.
This poem to glorify your return—you may discard the dried provisions.
Funds for your send-off are enough; what more could you hope to gain?
You should feel ashamed; hurry, leave my side at once.