How strange this year has been,
On Human Day, bitter continuous rain.
The first day of the cycle again not clear,
I secretly note it in my record book.
The eve of the Lantern Festival,
A sudden roar of thunder and drums.
Drunk asleep, I heard nothing at first,
Then startled by dancing snow and sleet.
Suddenly warm, sweat makes skin fester,
Swiftly cold, the frail back bends low.
Creator teases all that thrives,
Rubs hands, then suddenly wields an axe.
Creeping into early February,
Wild peaches half swallow, half spit.
Severe frost worse than midwinter,
Forces their colors to fade and droop.
Sun dimmed, dark spots swirl,
Sky darkened, yellow earth falls.
Omens perhaps not yet familiar,
But calamities can be witnessed.
A guest speaks of nearby counties,
Where plague demons run rampant.
Bodies weak, limbs struck as by mallets,
Throats sore, choked with thorns.
A family gathers joyous at dawn,
By dusk four or five have fallen.
The first Ding day, sacrifice at Confucius Temple,
Scholars' caps line up like a wall.
Noses stuffed, shoulders hunched,
Coughing and spittle fill corridors.
Living idle, lacking firewood and charcoal,
Fear the wind, tightly bolt the door.
If illness mild, don't seek a doctor,
Boil chuanxiong and angelica oneself.
Horizontal, vertical, medical texts in disarray,
Layers of coarse clothing piled on.
Once fine weather and auspicious air,
With cane of thorn, I crossed garden isles.
Swept dry ponds, spied new springs,
Searched withered plants, grasped hidden weeds.
Melting ice, minnows and loaches leap,
Damp soil, frogs and toads emerge.
Thought to take my rustic jug,
Taste village brew wherever I go.
This wish not yet fulfilled,
Already blocked by halberds and spears.
Far off, orioles and flowers abundant,
Anxious, silkworms and wheat may rot.
How many ills can one body bear?
Worries of the time, hard to count.
Heaven and earth are vast indeed,
What can one chirp add?
Wait a little till spring deepens,
Visit graves, feast at the country villa.