Kunlun, the mightiest of mountains, towers across the farthest realm.
The Yellow River surges from beneath, its fury beyond all measure.
The River Lord, in a fit of rage, splits the Kunlun rocks asunder.
Waters gush forth from the northeast corner, vast and boundless, without end.
Across the level plains they race, the Nine Provinces shrunk to a hand's breadth.
Their swelling tide threatens the heavens, and common folk drown in the flood.
This brought worry to Emperor Yao's heart; the Four Peaks recommended Gun to stem the flow.
But Gun disrupted the natural order; for nine years he achieved no success.
Yao, angered by his failure to control it, had him executed at Mount Yu.
Then came his son, called Yu, commanded to succeed his father's task.
In Luo he obtained the turtle's script, the nine categories of writing revealed.
Yu then rode on four conveyances, journeying far to trace the water's paths.
All streams returned to their proper courses; the nine branches of the river were opened.
When Yu's work was fully accomplished, the flood's disaster was finally quelled.
I ponder Yu's profound intent: to make nine channels was his far‑sighted plan.
Moreover, it's said he checked their excess—so Kong Anguo's records tell.
For over a thousand years of the Three Dynasties, thus no calamity occurred.
But the Warring States fought for land; the lords relied on deceit and force.
The river shifted with no constant year, its course submerged and lost to knowledge.
Dikes were built to curb its power, canals cut that severed earth's veins.
Yu's way was no longer studied; the river's flow met blockages and barriers.
Time and again it plagued the Central States, leaving no kingdom in peace.
Officials merely carried brushwood; the River Lord spurned their jade discs.
They felled all bamboo from Qi Garden, yet could not save the Huzi labor.
The people's strength was nearly exhausted; the state's resources drained to extremity.
From all quarters memorials poured in; ministers vied in offering schemes.
Tian Fen, then serving as chancellor, in his reports mostly obstructed them.
Did he care for the empire's benefit? He only prized his private fields.
Jia Rang's advice went unheeded; Yan Yan likewise was dismissed.
How is it that the sage's achievement, after a thousand years, cannot be regained?
Our August Song, blessed with prosperous peace, four sovereigns have upheld virtue and Dao.
All barbarians submit as vassals; all things flourish and multiply.
For seventy or eighty years, men have heard no clash of arms.
Yet here in Chan‑Hua region, the river's breach is said to be urgent.
I still recall in Tianxi era, Shandong and Hebei alike—
When straw and stalk taxes fell short, it reached the sides of both capitals.
Half the land was thrown into turmoil; people's hearts were filled with grief and dread.
Scarcely had the river been calmed, when dikes showed cracks and holes.
Waters rushed into Weibo region, turning high plains into vast marshes.
Millions of acres of fertile fields became food for fish and turtles.
To save them meant toil and expense; not to save them brought hidden sorrow.
Our ruler ponders deeply, fasting till the sun slants west.
I, unworthy, hold a petty post; feeding on plain fare, I blame myself.
I've not carried a single basket of earth, privately evading corvée rolls.
Nor have I a word of wisdom, a ten‑thousandth part of use.
Drifting with the world, rising and sinking, following the crowd, resigned to silence.
Yet sometimes in midnight thought, I see the people's bitter leanness.
Four years plagued by locusts and drought; the five grains devoured by pests.
Only this year, with timely wind and rain, have we gained one autumn's wheat.
Hands and feet still bear sores and scars; skin and flesh not yet full and firm.
If we wait till limbs grow stout, the people's care‑worn looks will fade.
If not, then seek the nine old channels—their ancient courses are clear and distinct.
One labor for eternal ease: this success admits no doubt.
Or perhaps we need not govern further, but follow the river's own nature.
Move the people to broad, fertile lands; channel the waters to flood the barbarian tribes.
Hear this humble woodcutter's words: of these three, Your Majesty must choose.