盐池十八韵

It stretches far like a river's bend, where endless waves of white extend.

From two pools springs never cease to flow, their benefits through ages grow.

The field clerks submit the annual yield, the plot tenders their monthly quotas fulfill.

At harvest, carts are loaded side by side; for planting, ground is first ground smooth and wide.

Scattered fragments gleam like pearls in disarray, dry sounds like jade being cut and polished play.

Banks lie flat, a snowy garden spread; channels seep, a silver river's bed.

Flocks of swans together soar and dance, herds of sheep repose in tranquil trance.

Their source is all briny marshland's trace, even the alien parts share the salty base.

Foam surprises floating gulls and egrets, the ford can soak clams and snails in its jets.

Boiling toils lighter than the vast sea's might, simmering bitter as the Zangke's plight.

Raindrops strike, returning water to its core; sheds brim full, covered with straw once more.

Salt winds blow and shape it into sheets, fierce suns bake and pile it into heats.

The sea's end, hard to reach, we know; foreign verdure cannot here grow.

To benefit people, meals never lack; to equalize levy, no bias to track.

Though Zhuolu's city is near in sight, how is Chiyou's blood, so crimson bright?

Sometimes it blazes in red, splendid and grand; everywhere it towers in white, a gleaming band.

Moistening below, it finally aids the state's need; its spirit long, one may ladle as decreed.

River plums must wait for me to come; only in gold cauldrons can they find their sum.