Two birds from beyond seas come, flying, flying to Central Land.
One bird alights in the city, one bird perches in cliff's seclusion.
Unable to accompany each other singing, three thousand autumns have passed since then.
The two birds each shut their mouths, all phenomena held within their beaks.
Spring wind sweeps the earth up, all birds float adrift.
The two birds suddenly meet, for a hundred days sing without cease.
Ears that hear are deafened by the noise, mouths that speak instead feel shame.
The hundred-tongued bird once rich in sound, henceforth forever hangs its head.
Falling ill, it does not moan, silent until death ends.
Lord Thunder reports to Heaven's Lord: "All things need oil and fat."
Ever since the two birds sang, clamor confounds, thunder's sound withdraws.
Ghosts and gods fear mockery and chant, creation's work all halts.
Grass and trees have subtle feelings, picked and displayed to the Nine Regions.
Insects and rats, truly tiny things, cannot bear harsh pursuit.
If the two birds' song does not stop, all things grow sorrowful.
If the two birds' song does not stop, henceforth no spring or autumn.
If the two birds' song does not stop, sun and moon can hardly turn their chariot.
If the two birds' song does not stop, the great law loses its nine categories.
Duke Zhou would not be a duke, Confucius would not be a mound.
Heaven's Lord finds the two birds strange, seizes each, imprisons in separate places.
All insects and all birds, only then chirp and cheep.
The two birds, now separated, silence their voices, reflect on faults.
Morning, they eat a thousand-headed dragon; evening, eat a thousand-headed ox.
Morning, drink till the river raises dust; evening, drink till the sea's flow ceases.
Still, after three thousand autumns, they'll rise again, sing in response.