Ah, malaria demon, how foolish and dark,
Your sunken soul still lingers in the river's flow.
Who says you descend from the noble Gao Yang clan?
How could you be so unworthy, vile and low?
As autumn stirs, you haunt with wicked might,
Usurping summer's heat to wield your spite.
This year you rage with cruelty untold,
In nine of ten homes, lamentations unfold.
Life moves through yearly cycles, cold and warm,
Great fevers may entangle human form.
With a turn of hand comes chill, a flip brings heat—
Your fleeting curse and blessing, brief and fleet.
Foolish children may tremble at your name,
But you cannot daunt this steadfast heart of flame.
Have you forgotten Du Fu's verse, divine,
Where bloodied skulls in ghastly visions shine?
Han Yu expelled you with more arts and lore,
With herbs and charms to drive you from the door.
Through ancient times and now, all hate your breed,
Yet you persist in evil, never heed.
Why not learn from mermaids weaving frosty lace,
Or drift with river gods in lotus grace?
You choose the lowly path, incurring blame,
Cursed and spat upon, a wretched fame.
For days you've lurked around my humble room,
Though thrice dismissed, you linger in the gloom.
My verse and wine remain, my joys intact—
What can your weary tricks now hope to enact?
The great river in autumn, fresh and clear,
With bright moon shining, gentle breeze draws near.
Repent and swiftly to your kin return,
Call your companions, let your revels burn.
Late night, my chant done, I prepare for rest,
The lamp-flower glows, a pearl upon my breast.
Awake from dreams, my sickness melts away,
Rustling wind through courtyard trees holds sway.