Now the waters hold their sway, forty days of rain from eaves.
Prayers to all gods have been made, yet fish and crabs invade our homes.
The common folk are pressed and fried, everywhere the grains are gone.
The sage designed the state to be, a place for rest and hopeful life.
The root lies in the counties, parents rely on shepherds.
How did they lose their proper way, that people turned to banditry?
To offend again brings no pardon, fearing to betray heaven's grace.
The recent turmoil in Zhuji, arose from salt's contentious cause.
Officials have killed many times, eager to confront them as foes.
All people have a good nature, not solely bent on wickedness.
Pressed by hunger and cold behind, wives and children show their fear.
Who knows the terror of the blade, worse than the ditch's desperate plight?
Townsfolk rise up to fight each other, brawling first for profit's sake.
I do not aim for plunder, yet chance has left its trace on me.
Royal officers are human too, hearing this should feel concealed pity.
Otherwise caught in law's tight net, no time to plan a way back out.
Alas, with no alternative, under heaven this is not alone.
Corpses strewn like dogs and chickens, slaughtered swiftly, left in mess.
I hear the official troops are stirred, to hunt the remnants urgently.
Unless we urge the root's true task, people will die, unchanged their lot.
Then heaven rains again this time, the minister arrives at last.
The people should be made full-fed, if not, they are our kin as well.
Urge them to live a better life, tears fall for souls already dead.