Yin and Yang fell into disarray,
Arrogant and stubborn, no longer heeding order.
Amidst this, drought parches the land,
The scorching south suffers as if by fire.
Plants half-wither, their growth stunted,
The promise of a good harvest is nearly gone.
Suddenly, clouds and thunder rush to their duty,
Marshaled by the Master of Rain.
They command the blazing sun,
A vast, azure light arises and spreads.
The sound of rain comes with the wind first,
Scattering, all bending westward.
Mountain springs swell the river,
The roar of thunder still rings in the ears.
All morning, a continuous rushing sound,
After two nights, the downpour finally ceases.
Now the ground below the hall can be tilled into plots,
I call the boy to start planning the rows.
Lettuce, a common vegetable,
Its seeds are sown as routine.
Breaking clods within a few mats' space,
Hoes in hand, the work seems easy.
Yet for twenty days, no sprouts break the soil,
Vainly buried in mud, a pity.
Wild amaranth, you came unbidden,
Indeed, it proliferates here.
Such weeds are not without their autumn,
They too receive the dew's chill and wither.
But they spring from the earth with startling speed,
Spreading wildly, ruining courtyard and door.
Thus I learn how the crooked overwhelms the straight,
Suppressing it until life's end.
The virtuous may gain their due,
But holding to principle, they do not aggrandize self.
Yet cold clings, orchids and iris fail,
While brambles and thorns grow thick.
The garden falls to rank weeds,
A lasting shame to this old gardener.
Were it placed on a plate of white jade,
Adorned like rosy clouds at dawn.
The amaranth would have no place,
How could it bear to enter the basket?