Moonlight shines on the branchless forest; night's pillars stand on myriad bases.
Tiny, tiny fans among clouds shade this eighth-month heat.
Above hang drooping seed-pods; below twine crimson thorns for defense.
Wind bullies the purple phoenix eggs; rain darkens the grey dragon's milk.
Cracked shell, once fallen to earth, is still boiled in its own skin.
Northern guests, initially unaccustomed, are urged to eat—custom hard to refuse.
Hollow within, fearing to leak vital breath; first chew, perhaps half-spit.
Sucking the juice yields slight sweetness; sticking to teeth, soon turns bitter.
Face and eyes too sternly cold; flavor utterly lacks charm.
To punish Peng Yue, merit could be recorded; to push chariots, courage should be sold.
Miasmic winds cause stubborn obstinacy; guiding benefits, sometimes it supplements.
Medicine stores surely allow this; fruit records, why use so much?
The master lost his rich fare; his paunch entrusted to a rotten drum.
Daily chewing more than one nut, his guts are thereby offended.
Dormant thunder rumbles in navel and kidneys; wild greens rot at high noon.
Studying the lamp, seeing the oil exhaust; the water-clock's marks counted one by one.
Old eyes fear little sleep, eventually making red canthi taut as crossbows.
Thirsty, I think of swallowing plum groves; hungry, I recall raising yellow tubers.
How is it, in the Classic of Agriculture, this is listed, trapping the traveler?
Ox-tongue herb not served to others—a whole hu measure, would they give more?
Thus I know my view was biased; it can only repay harsh words.