The ninth month of Bingwu year, winter just began,
The last day of the month, snow startles as it falls from the void.
Word has it the capital saw it even earlier,
All officials entered the Mingguang Palace to offer their praise.
Since the skies cleared, no more rain has come,
The gentle air feels thick as in deepest spring.
The Dipper's handle points to Zi, the day is Dingmao,
At night, cracks in the sky are fanned, the Thunder Lord is whipped.
Following with three or four peals of shocking thunder,
Startling dormant insects, breaking their hibernation dens.
Who knew the Dark Profound had not yet fully played its part,
Turning its hand, it makes clouds the same for a thousand miles.
By the dark window, first hearing pearls of hail sprinkling down,
Xun'er and Tengliu are just beginning their work.
One day, joy to see the tile gutters piling up,
Enduring cold, waiting for company, gleaming, not melting.
Two days, three days, then a full foot deep,
Its rich moisture bathes the four seas, grace boundless.
Since ancient times, poets have sung, never exhausting it,
Ingenious thoughts spring forth, like the venerable Han Yu.
In youth, I wielded my brush, unwilling to stop,
Now old, I fold my sleeves, grown lazy and aloof.
The children play, recording last night's dream,
Dancing like fierce beasts with golden, double-pupiled eyes.
Who insists on stirring poetic thoughts so painfully,
And adds jade mountains, several peaks high?
Moving Liu Cha's two ice pillars here,
Their glow reflects, making the clear heart and mind feel even purer.
Seeing them, excitement stirs, an itch for skill,
Rising, I blow on frozen brush, seeking the poetry tube.
Opening the door, I see the sky's vault vast,
A million white rainbows churning in the long wind.
Jade towers and palaces fill the wondrous realm,
A thousand forests of precious trees, spring's exquisite clarity.
I regret having no terrace three hundred feet high,
To gaze upon all phenomena, soaring through the misty void.
I know well illusory scenes have their birth and decay,
For a time, it's as if entering Kunlun's fairyland.
In a moment, immortals witness a mortal kalpa,
How can we know this moment isn't divine work?
I rejoice all the more that rice prices have been low this year,
And wish to follow the old farmer, holding the plow.
Over the wall comes the turbid wine,
Let us drink deeply together and sing of the abundant year.