Last year the dam broke, autumn rains poured down,
Grains in southern fields turned precious as gold's crown.
The county official thought the harvest was fine,
Paid the rent, went home with thunder hidden in his spine.
The old man warned his son to toil with hoe and plow,
Endure hunger, wait for next autumn's bounty now.
Who knew that in June again no rain would fall,
The two rivers' flow nearly ceased, a bitter thrall.
The weir stones shook, the channel almost dry,
Heaven far, unheard the people's desperate cry.
The imperial envoy is the people's fate,
His heart twists nine times daily, fearing their dire state.
Fasting on vegetables, he earnestly pleads to the sky,
At the irrigation head, offerings pure and high.
Smoke from the sacrifice rose, dark clouds suddenly spread,
Soon the universe was drenched in bounty shed.
All night the eaves dripped, not ceasing their sound,
Fields and ditches flowed with nourishing milk profound.
The weary folk snapped fingers, bowed to thank his grace,
Their empty bellies felt a hopeful trace.
For ten years the border town has sheathed the spear,
But neighboring flames press close—what can we do here?
Alas, nine in ten households hang empty, worn thin,
How to meet sudden military needs from within?
People's hearts only know joy in careless ease,
We must deeply plan for the roots, if we wish to please.
Observing his sincere care for the people's plight,
Surely his worry for the state is deep and right.
I sing a joyful Shang-tone ode for his delight,
May he become a cloudburst, drenching all lands with his might.