Customs in Huai decline daily;
The discerning deeply worry.
Heaven's change is not without cause,
Drought and heat—who is to blame?
What I hear and see these days,
Every house sounds sad and mournful.
The magistrate does not despise them,
Riding alone through the circuits.
I seem to hear between fields and ridges,
Dense, the sleet and rain fall thick.
After efforts to quell fires,
Grain measured, stored in granaries.
One death breeds a hundred pests,
Sturdy weeds fatten locusts and borers.
Toil cannot be stopped,
Good planning for aftermath still lacking.
Speaking of your talent and wisdom,
Governing a state seems like seeking able men.
Wearing orchids, escorting dark ramparts,
Often heading toward dark paths.
The world's worthy, Liu Xizong,
Viewed Eastern Hill as mere mustard.
Just about to relieve the upside-down,
No leisure yet to sing of returning.
Before, cups float on deep abyss,
You are a ship of ten thousand hu.
May Heaven open aged eyes,
One rain wash away sighs and sorrows.
Old and young sated with beans and grain,
Exiles settled in fields and plots.
Probing pills like He and Bian,
Deep illness suddenly cured.
I too am one of the people,
A dan or stone barely remaining.
Suffering stems from oneself,
Dare not forget to seek within.
Poems come, mindful of your toil,
My imitation but adds shame.
Who sees the hand rescuing drowning,
Not counting how many chips are lost?