The sun's calamity meets its hundred-and-sixth cycle, fierce and cruel as a conflagration.
Pure autumn descends on the fourteenth day, for ten decades the red drought stretches a thousand miles.
Fields crack like the shell of a spirit turtle, waterwheels halt like thirsty crows.
Through the seasons, no rain is recorded; withered, alas, are the young crops.
Though the sea has its tides, what use when the well holds no water?
Stuffed noses, smoke stifling; river winds blow against the face, then cease.
The mindful folk see no snow fall; in the fiery land, how can ice ever tread?
The cruel drought-demon—can it be overcome? Shamans, gaunt and haggard, are at a loss.
Rain-prayers follow ancient rites, but the invocators falter and stumble.
Boats for aid are all exhausted; granaries shaken—how little remains?
Hollow, we gaze at the Milky Way; distant, we howl at the Screen-Hider god.
While northern foes have not yet come to court, farming and war truly exhaust our strength.
Recruitment links squads of five and ten; provisions granted, multiplied severalfold.
The people lack even a grain; the overseers face wrath and curses.
Does Heaven's canopy truly nurture? Weeds and thorns regard all living things.
If a three-day downpour could be wrought, a deluge would set all affairs right.
The scorched and withered cannot be saved, but roots and sprouts may yet hold hope.
Weary millions of mouths, life upon life, depend on the Celestial Emperor.
A dwarf's single sackful is enough; the orphaned and widowed receive a thousand chests.
All three armies bathe in abundance; how could the state not be set in order?