Clouds surge like startled waves, ink splashed across the sky,
Ten thousand holes roar fierce, four mountains darken high.
Lightning's mother blinks her eyes, scaring the wind god's might,
Swift thunder rages, shaking the earth's axis in its plight.
Rain pours like rivers falling, stones pelting from on high,
Up hills and down, springs pulse, as arteries run dry.
Rocks float, trees uproot, cliffs crack and split apart,
The plateau stands, its feet submerged, a vast lake from the start.
An ancient temple totters, front and back by ridges pressed,
Tiles rotten, rafters broken, walls in ruin, dispossessed.
Mud Buddha's head exposed, water soaks its chest,
Moss coins and vines entwine, a gilded, jade-like nest.
Behind the hall, torrents shoot like arrows, swift and keen,
Carrying rage, they seek the narrow gaps between.
Clothes drenched, feet pricked by burrs, I watch the ditches swell,
Pity the common folk, old thorns where they must dwell.
With spears and halberds armed, armor never laid aside,
Midnight brings worry, daylight brings no food to bide.
How dare I seek a peaceful rest, a tranquil bed,
When common homes are drowned, water over head?
Strong men swim afloat, the old sink down and drown,
Some perch on bird nests high, or ape's branch, looking down.
Alas, they wish to flee but have no wings to fly,
I rise and gaze long, only a heavy sigh.
Broken reeds and driftwood hang from eaves above,
Chickens fly, dogs leap, scrambling to the roof in shove.
Dragons and turtles peer, lost where they should reside,
Heaven and earth wish clear, but just a moment's tide.
The courtyard mud is deep, still several feet it stands,
Great waves like silver boil, flooding the fields and lands.
Ten thousand horses trample, chariot wheels collide,
The poor wish to cook, but no pot or stove beside.
Earthworms in hall, fish at the threshold stray,
Children catch fish, unaware of sorrow's way.
South of the stream can't reach the north, though near it seems,
A single step divides like distant, foreign dreams.
The drowned drift off, no trace of them remains,
East village, west village, choked with weeping strains.
My hands can't save them, tears soak my breast in pain,
To bury corpses though I wish, what gain?
Heaven's principle, alas, is dark, hard to divine,
The lonely innocent, no love for them doth shine.
Buried in stream by fish, or sand and gravel's bed,
Yet can bend and yield to thieves, by whom they're led.
They dig deep dangers, hide in secret lairs,
Not with their blood and fat to grease the swords and spears.
The August Heaven feels no love, fortune or woe is straight,
Once clear and bright, now all is doubt and debate.
I sing and chant, to write my grief and woe,
The bamboo grove overnight with autumn's hues doth glow.