By the foot of the great mountain's ancient site, I store the sacred spirit of the earth.
Rejoicing in heaven and earth's blessed grace, the emperor purifies and offers sincere faith.
Gathering the earth's dignified composure, I critique the rites of a hundred sages.
Rejecting grand carriages for straw mats, I honor only the virtue of frugality.
With focused heart I burn the offering, divining benevolence and righteousness for eternal years.
Carving jade tablets to plead fate's decree—why keep such matters secret, untold?
Praise to Liangfu's plants and trees, adorned with radiant glory and favor.
Consulting Liangfu's aged elders, I grieve not witnessing the serene peace.
Though thousands of chariots and riders bustle in delicate array, their echoes still wander, hesitant.
Heaven's course aligns as it may—even sages cannot fully know.
That river, vast and boundless—though fair, it does not aid the crossing.
Mount Tai's peak endures wind, rain, and peril—yet there, feng sacrifices were made to report by analogy.
How could it be deemed impossible?—Alas, the encounter alone was rare.
Even Yi Yin and Zhou Gong aided the world—yet what cause had they for pride?
Alas, my life is fraught with thorns—far short of those seventy-two sovereigns.
Sun and moon dim, obscure—I meet the long, dark night's expanse.
Competing axes and blades decay daily—chasing the lost deer, tearing its flank.
The Han set the target—yet spared not the remaining people.
I, simple and crude, cannot devise plans—timid and soft, I fear the clash of arms.
Presenting jade tablets to bandits—what immortality could be hoped for?
How many times have I faced death?—In chaotic times, I barely escape.
Fortunate is this land's peace and joy—relying on Zhennan, not far away.
I plow in Longzhong—fertile fields suit grain and seed.
Surveying plains and slopes, high and low—dividing the soil into hundred-acre plots.
The people's joy in those two dynasties—did they not cherish having all this?
Stealing fullness for my belly alone—I watch the year progress to the You sign.
Heaven irrigates with rain and dew—I further nourish with ditches and channels.
Grains lush, sharing single ears—some husks bearing twin kernels.
Frost and dew descend on gathered sheaves—I, with the herdsboy, beat them clean.
Sparrows and rats ruin the bundled stalks—I, with the neighbor's elder, reap them.
Tribute measures match those of Xuxia—still a mere fraction of jade-like feasts.
May the ruler open Wei's path—oversee sacrifices without fail.
In King Wen's age of virtuous might—he rushed to oppose Shang's tyranny.
Scorning ruler and minister, acting willfully—what use have I for this grain?
Ceremonial caps versus straw rain hats—royal robes versus coarse hemp cloaks.
I labor till my hands grow calloused—resting amid lush grasses, brief respite.
Tapping the ox's horn, singing long—the tune echoes Yunmen's melody.
Mount Li now lies overgrown—birds peck at water-chestnuts below.
The minister of Youxin grows distant—old farmers hoe the familiar soil.
Counting what they eat from this—not even one zhong per month.
Ashamed that one might lay down the plow—thus making tillage seem of no use.
Alas, the hearts of sages and worthies—I may glimpse but faint traces.
Truly, my hopes fall short, beyond reach—yet I await the coming year's renewal.