Xihe errs in winter's command, where cold and warmth often blend.
In human affairs, constancy is rare, seasons shift between greed and fairness.
The Dark Lord holds sway, both feared and humble in his way.
The cold should speak, but holds its breath, sprouts mistake it and push toward death.
Warmth comes, then sudden chill, nights are dark, sleep brings no thrill.
Water's course loses its reason, the ailment defies all season.
Just days ago, in early winter's reign, thunder shook the bronze toad, a strange refrain.
Three days later, heavy snow did fall, swirling flakes dazzled eyes, confounding all.
Since then, a month has passed in flight, cold and heat have changed with might.
At dawn, I sit by the eastern pane, sunlight's favor brings a sweet, warm gain.
Frosty fields show vegetable shoots, joyfully I take my sickle to the roots.
In a moment, bitter cold descends, withered vines tremble, my hand offends.
Teeth chatter in the frosty gale, tongue shrinks as if held by a nail.
Shelves and books are tossed in disarray, who can set the labels straight today?
Wine cups feel weak, devoid of cheer, the empty jar calls for more, I fear.
A mink coat still fails to bring me heat, let alone those without cloth, incomplete.
Huddled in yellow silk, I sit alone, neck drawn like a turtle in its stone.
Blood and breath turn skin to grain, tears and snot freeze in beard's domain.
A red stove burns with firewood bright, soon the cold stars seem to lose their light.
In quiet thought, between heaven and earth, how vast and varied is each creature's worth.
By the road, some weep from cold and hunger, at sea's edge, others drown in sorrow longer.
Feathers find no shelter from the blast, raw flesh knows no fire to cook it fast.
How can I, in such a time, claim my own state as sublime?
I earnestly tell my wife and child, do not harbor complaints, wild.
A torn quilt can still hold cotton tight, a leaky roof can be patched right.
If in life one knows contentment's art, dwelling here brings peace to the heart.
I only wish the king's rule would spread, east and west, with blessings shed.
In Yao's sky, the sun stretches long, all eyes may see where they belong.
Cold dwells in my humble lane, I gladly bear the salted grain.
Why lean by another's gate, scorching hands with the wicked's fate?
Grand mansions of nobles, proud and high, with pearls and songs beneath the sky.
Their seasons know but warmth and cool, unaware of the poor man's rule.
Fortune and misfortune come and go, intertwined in weal and woe.
Do not rely on jade so fine, content with reeds that are mine.
Three meals a day to fill the belly, one coat to guard against the chilly.
In bitter cold, do not complain, let it curb desires in vain.