In the summer of Yihai, under the Zhihe reign, wheat withered in the great drought.
No seeds were sown in autumn fields, scorched through the heart of June.
Suddenly, Heaven's will took pity, pouring down a vast, soaking rain.
All grains swelled with sweet moisture, timely as if by irrigation blessed.
Transformed into a year of plenty, farmers fled no more the taxman's chase.
Yet after the plenty, rain ceased again, for months the dry spell held its sway.
A fierce sun blazed in midwinter, warm air assailed the village gates.
Though tax collection posed no hardship, plague and sickness feared no escape.
Who could expect, before the solstice, winds howled and gloom refused to part?
They blew open the six-petal flowers, scattering wildly through the void.
Gradually, the dusty air was cleansed, slowly, the branches gathered weight.
In time, the tiles lay level white, by dusk, the fields were buried deep.
Though less than a foot it fell, in recent years such sight was rare.
Auspicious record should head the annals, other things are not worth the crown.
Now I grasp the gods of Heaven, send down blessings beyond all count.
Common folk but grumble and complain, one glance turns hardship back again.
A noble man should trust in Heaven, through peril and calm hold the greater view.
Rewarding the wicked is not nature's way, blessing the good, in darkness, judgment lies.
I rejoice to open my wine jar, with guests together sigh in delight.
Long ill, I've sworn off drink, yet at this feast, by my own will, I decide.
Fill the cup full and sing with gusto, light chill brushed off in our discourse.
Perhaps not despite, but because of this, I find release from my own cares.