The air of Feng and Ya did not revive; who among later ages could be counted?
Declining for centuries, Heaven and Earth truly gave birth to Fu.
Lending him rainbow and halos, they illuminated his heart and lungs.
Stripping him of wealth and joy, they spurred him to write of affairs.
Thus he was left in hunger and cold, eating coarse rice, wearing ragged clothes.
Deep sorrow bred fierce anger, each word overturning oxen and tigers.
Satirical verses broke ten thousand households, their force none could withstand.
Like the overwhelming floodwaters, channeled by the divine Yu.
Others cling to a single skill, like a dou unable to be a fu.
You alone possessed galloping speed, swift hooves coupled with steed's wings.
A drifting duckweed to the end of his days, even in death still a wanderer.
High talent cast aside, who would not feel resentment and anger?
You alone forgot this, grieving only for the legacy of Tang.
Lamenting the pain of chaos and disaster, seeking to restore moral order.
Heaven endowed you with loyalty and righteousness, not to flatter later viewers.
With hardship obtaining a post, your words on affairs clashed and jarred.
This sincere heart is clear to see, who would willingly suffer in vain?
Shallow men, how despicable, boasting of themselves, slandering their lord.
If writings do not comprehend the Dao, how can they dominate past and present?
A flame ten thousand feet long could still subdue Han Yu.