Heaven and Earth, parents to all, none are not kind; embryos of millions become horned and bridled.
Where breastfeeding cannot reach, sometimes the crying baby dies.
The upper reaches of South River are called fertile land, yet in Jingyou's Bingzi year, famine struck.
New fields just sprouting, old grain exhausted; eight or nine out of ten homes had no morning cooking.
What hidden force is so unkind, brewing floods to add to the disaster?
Soot blackens the sky, rain like ink; mountains vomit, valleys vent, racing to rush forth.
Torrents strike the city walls overnight, ten thousand hidden arrows piercing skin.
On the eastern isle, corpses huddle; like ants trying to flee, trapped by water.
House roots powerless, tree trunks snapped; flood dragons eat people, still choosing the fat.
Waves and billows, at a glance, blocked by myriad hills; kin cannot support each other.
Master Liu of the Imperial Academy, a lover of benevolence, then acting as commander of this army.
People's lives depend on me, not fate; he ordered boats to rescue, none dared disobey.
Children naked, women in distress; loaded onto hollowed logs, how many in piles.
Mud-cold outside, hungry and thirsty within; mouths locked silent, like madmen.
Cramped, sitting or lying, filling government halls; given wine to drink, plus gruel and porridge.
Some drifting with the flow also did not die, far off a hundred miles, unknown to anyone.
Donating money to inquire their names, summoning clans to take them home.
The Minister of Revenue's granaries all opened, not waiting for reports, acting first.
Surplus could moreover fill the lack; great merchants and hoarders responded like echoes.
Coming to see, leaving to inspect, night continuing day; scorching heat, unwilling to rest under ornate beams.
Thus one commandery, a hundred thousand households, starved skin over months growing plump again.
Survivors protect each other, the dead are buried; Tang and Yu's benevolent longevity is urged to ascend.
The sage ruler nurtures the worthy, the worthy nurture things; harmonious energy thickly connects high and low.
West of the city, the old palace, ancient pine path; one morning, falling dew sweet as syrup.
A thousand branches, ten thousand leaves, knotted inextricably; jade steps, jade trees, shining bright.
Common folk run to see, vying to gaze; hands climbing, mouths sucking, sighing together.
An old learner, a man of the Zhou clan, loving goodness, unlike a Taoist priest.
Wishing to make the deeds shine long, built a pavilion on that spot, lofty and towering.
The Duke's return to court cannot be borrowed; the pine trees to this day have not yet withered.
I compose this poem to display on the pavilion; in later years, tears will fall like on the Yang stele.