I've left my post within the court, to govern Yongyang's folk.
Though Yongyang's people are many, hunger and poverty still cloak.
No method have I to enrich them, cautious and small I stay.
How can we bear this summer's drought, that burns like fire day by day?
The fields, once muddy soil, now see dust clouds rise and spread.
The young and old have none to plead to, but gaze at heaven overhead.
With official's pay comes people's woe, my brows are knit night and morn.
I hasten to free prisoners from jail, to every god I pray and mourn.
The "Chu Ci" speaks of mountain ghosts, their temples line the river's side.
The foreign law has Buddhist pagodas, monasteries stretch far and wide.
With solemn rites I order my staff, from my salary the offerings are drawn.
With drums and flutes we welcome the pool's water, incense and flowers shine upon the golden icon.
I know well this is not the ancient way, but to comfort the drought-stricken folk I strive.
By chance it meets with heaven's rain, pouring evenly on the countryside.
To transplant rice and mend the weirs, how joyful are the old farmers there!
Now they can pay the official taxes, and avoid the farmers' toil and care.
Harmony relies on the timely minister, response comes from the sage lord on high.
What merit then is mine to claim? Dare I hope for songs of praise to fly?
Yang the Water Minister, a clear stream, his virtue is a neighbor to my own.
Chou Xiang's official rank was low, He Xun's poetic style was newly grown.
You sent me this "Rain Celebration" piece, saying it's from people's mouths you've heard.
My friend, you surely favor me, with over-praise, too kind a word.
To bring timely rain is not my task, my duty lies in writing verse alone.
If folk songs of praise should rise, I'll sing of the emperor's grace like springtime sown.
So that the poetry-collecting officer may present them, to aid the south wind's gentle tone.