In the summer of Bingxu, the Qingli era's span,
The drought's miasma burns like a fiery pan.
Wayfarers all succumb to the scorching heat,
While dwellers at home with pestilence meet.
Birds drop, their beaks agape, no respite they seek,
Fish nearly rot, their scales worn and weak.
Even thin silks offer no relief to wear,
Made worse by thunderous mosquitoes in the air.
The fierce sun severs the veins of rain,
Parched torment stretches beyond fifty days in vain.
Farmland ridges sit cracked, drained and spent,
Crisscrossed like scorched tortoise shells, fissures rent.
All eyes bloodshot, strained from constant stare,
Gazing daily at clouds o'er the western air.
The governor grieves for the people's plight,
His mind in tangled threads, a chaotic sight.
He prays to dragons, cuts geese as sacrifice due,
Opens the north gate to let cool shadows through.
Ancient rites long prove of no avail,
To myriad shrines, efforts redouble without fail.
Across the realm he奔走, seeking divine grace,
But the gods seem deaf, ignoring this place.
At times, a sprinkle falls, a meager trace,
A misty damp that barely wets dust's face.
All hope for harvest year has slipped away,
As autumn's equinox marks the season's sway.
Suddenly, a great downpour descends from high,
Darkening the sky, day merges with night's dye.
It falls like spears in battle, dense and long,
Into the gutters, a deluge fierce and strong.
Nineteen in ten crops of field lie dead,
Their withered roots by force of flood are fed.
Weeds, cheap and tough, revive with ease,
Thriving lush as if touched by spring's gentle breeze.
Frogs, parched and eager, find pools to fill,
Leaping in mud, a playful, joyous thrill.
To aid all things seems easy, nature's part,
Yet timely response comes hard, a wrenching art.
The stranded fish's bones have long decayed,
Too late the western river's surge is made.
Valley millet, frost-thickened, lies in state,
Only now does Zou's flute tune warmth, too late.
Heaven's intent—who dares to question why?
Facing it, one can but swallow a sigh.