Why has Heaven long withheld the rain?
I wish to bring my suit to Heaven's gate.
The wheat is scorched and nearly slain,
While the blazing sun still burns in state.
Dark clouds have spread across the field,
The promise of rain seems boundless there.
Before a drop could moisten the yield,
Four wild winds assail the waiting air.
They shake the valleys with their roar,
Leaving no trace of cloud or mist.
The Rain God has labored evermore,
The Wind Lord seems not to desist.
Should Heaven allow such deeds to be,
And cruelly let my fields be marred?
A silent plea received reply,
No need for shaman's word or bard.
In the sixth and seventh months just past,
Rain from eaves hung like ropes so fast.
It poured for ten days, a deluge vast,
Bursting forth, a hundred streams amassed.
Travelers found the roads were blocked,
Houses seemed fit for boats to dock.
Without the Screen God's work, I'd mock,
How sun and stars would change their clock.
I plead, consider people's plight,
With heartfelt blood, reach Heaven's height.
Wind and rain should come in season,
Lest they bring blame without reason.
Children look up for grain to eat,
How can we cut off their food's heat?
We pity only peddlers' toil,
Not worry first for crops and soil.
Complaints fill southern fields with strife,
While markets buzz with merry life.
Vain talk of flood's calamity,
To boast of those who sweep with glee.
What have they mended of sun and moon?
They only leave a year of ruin.
My trivial suit against the Wind Lord,
But echoes Han Yu's written word.