The Torch-Dragon flies with fire in mouth, heaven and earth ablaze;
Flat lands windless, sea waves boil.
Crimson clouds pile up like strange peaks towering;
Flaming, flowing light, heat congeals emerald.
On misty isles, the roc tires, drooping both wings;
Xihe blazes in rage, straining at the reins.
Kuafu, drinking rivers, died on his long road—
As if seeing the king's mark stamped upon the sky.
Clearly night goes west, dawn comes east again;
Since ancient times, the proper path returns to center.
Old leaves of Fusang cannot shield it;
Its radiant splendor seeks to dominate the azure void.
Travelers wave sweat that turns to rain;
Mouths parched, throats dry, choked with dust.
Western suburbs, cloud colors darken the day;
Why is there no relief for living beings' suffering?
What mountain's strange trees hide flood dragons?
Scales shrunk, manes curled, in perverse idleness.
They do not release torrents to pour upon the world;
If they wish to command wind and thunder, from where will it come?
On the plain, parched seedlings wither into flame;
Mountain spirits pray in vain, no divine response.
Behind rich families' curtains, they call for cool breeze;
Water-patterned mats, bright and smooth, are spread.
Jade fans, painted halls, congeal a night of autumn;
Lascivious songs linger, urging 'carefree' tunes.
The sun-bird has set, yet wine-drunkenness persists;
Helped up to the moonlit tower in the west garden.
Scorched fields, heatstroke deaths—not our concern;
The vault holds gold, the granary holds grain.