South of the Wu River lies a land called the Rich Country.
Five grains grow there, feeding the world; one year of failure, our people turn pale as vegetables.
How can Heaven be so unkind, letting that drought demon flaunt its power?
A proud crimson dragon pushes its fiery chariot, coming from the southeast mountains.
The Pool of Harmony dares not douse it; the Water God turns pale, worried to be boiled.
How much more these field streams, trickling thin—not enough to wet the lips and teeth.
Only see the millet and grain, stirring red dust as they rise.
The Earth God orders his underlings to sweep the road, welcoming hungry ghosts.
Alas, the simple common folk, their bodies placed in pots and steamers for cooking.
The petty complain, the noble understand: Heaven gives life, Heaven takes life—now is the time.
I hear the great virtue of the vast sky lies in nurturing life, cherishing all things like infants.
Creating people's bodies, bestowing people's food—why cut it off midway?
In the dim darkness of that time, something was entrusted improperly.
Mountain and river gods each guard their lands; dragons receive posts to rule the celestial pools.
God on high personally gives orders: rain every ten days without delay.
The Emperor's heart is benevolent and trustworthy; overseeing below, surely without doubt.
Saying all affairs have their duties, he banishes sight and hearing, thinking of non-action.
How could he know the foolish lowly ghosts, ungrateful, hard to control?
Wielding Heaven's power, insulting human lives, greedy for cattle and sheep, demanding sacrifice.
Suddenly if one thing displeases them, they cause this drought to harm living beings.
The thunder officials fear blame, dare not remonstrate; heads pillowed on heaven's drums, asleep unwaking.
The Emperor is in the Purple Forbidden Enclosure, separated below by a thousand miles of clouds.
Vainly I cry blood toward the sky; though the Emperor's heart is sage, how can he hear?
The Northern Dipper attends the Emperor's side, revolving the mother of energy, balancing the four seasons.
The five planets and all the stars shine without bias.
Why then tolerate these ghosts, acting willfully, lightly defying Heaven's might?
Surely state affairs are numerous; eyes and ears have some omissions.
What am I, a petty subject? A wild grass bearing strange integrity.
I wish to bind the demon's neck, but have no long rope; wish to chop the dragon's head, but my sword edge is blunt.
If the vast sky does not see this evil, it only leaves this petty subject's heart knotted in gloom.