秋旱得雨

The low fields crack in patterns like a tortoise shell,

The high fields half are buried in a yellow dust.

The grain ears wither, nearly dead, a sorry sight,

Made worse by pests that on the weakened stalks do thrust.

With gongs and drums they vie in prayers to the sky,

The people's suffering moves the gods to pity deep.

A sudden flash of lightning cuts the void with mirth,

Then hidden rumbles of an angry thunder keep.

The clouds advance as vanguard of the coming host,

And send a gracious rain upon the thirsty ground.

The old and young are wild with joy beyond all bounds,

And feel a breath of life again begin to sound.

With fowl and pig they celebrate the autumn rite,

And count the days till they can taste the fresh-brewed wine.

The price of rice is spared from soaring to the sky,

And thus my heart, too, feels a sense of peace divine.

A cooling murmur winds around the pine tree's crest,

I loose my robe and wander freely, east and west.

The clinging heat had poured my sweat in streams like rain,

To gain this respite is a pleasure free from pain.

This simple song shall serve as ballad of the folk,

And with a cup of wine, I'll toast and end this joke.