The primal breath moves through the void, a force unseen,
All forms are molded by its fire, both frail and keen.
Heat, cold, and dryness, moisture—each plays its own part,
Their work extends to plants and trees, and insects' art.
Why does the sun's excess bring harm, a plague so dire,
That thunder gods and rain lords hide, retire?
The blazing heat grows fierce, its power overwhelms,
As if all things were bronze, melted in fiery realms.
Fields crack like tortoise shells, the streams and rivers dry,
No waterwheels can turn; bones hang where dragons lie.
Then suddenly, a cloud transforms in a hand's turn,
The cosmos still unformed, in primal chaos churn.
At first like thread-like drips, the air begins to shift,
Then builds to pouring rain, a sound that gives a lift.
Is it mere divine might that brings this change about?
Perhaps high Heaven pities human want and doubt.
Plenty and dearth by fate, yet not by fate alone,
For in them works Creation's force, to all well-known.
In recent years, the five grains too have grown in strife,
The granaries of grandsons rise like walls in life.
Yet now each household sighs, left bare and destitute,
The rich regret they cannot till the land, be brute.
We must know that the hearts of thousands, one and all,
In silence with the heart of Heaven heed the call.
Joyful farmers vie to offer their delight,
Cooking their greens and dates, they chase Bin's ancient rite.
And when in tenth month threshing floors are built anew,
Brown hens and white wine in each village come to view.
But pray the Field God drives the locusts far away,
As in old Jing, songs of abundant years hold sway.