By the river, a place that wearied troops
South of the Yangtze, a sky of cruel drought.
Who knew the day of campaigning against Xing
Was not the year to conquer Yin?
Anxiously I sigh at these hard times
Warily I fear the seasons' disorder.
Clouds merely blot out sun and moon
Rain should fall upon mountains and streams.
The Creator's furnace thinks of fire
Yin and Yang's charcoal billows smoke.
Baring my chest, I endure the scorching day
Washing my feet, I yearn for clear ripples.
Prison cases await a judge like Yu Dingguo
My heart hopes for an official like Dai Feng.
Dare I forget to receive abundant grace?
I merely hope it reaches my private fields.
Offering prayers is sincere and clear
Burning witches is a foolish policy.
Mount Ling ceased prayers for Duke Jing of Qi
Fine jade was exhausted for King Xuan of Zhou.
Stone swallows—who once made them dance?
Clay dragons only grow harder themselves.
Fish in despair grieve in dried ruts
Well ropes are useless with dried springs.
Worry for my five acres returns, distressing
Hope for the three farming seasons grows more desperate.
Briefly cheered by a dripping trickle
Finally dismayed by persistent blockage.
Humbling oneself, the heart should be earnest
Dredging waterways, taxes must be remitted.
Riding in a carriage, I once saved creatures
Watering horses, I formerly tossed coins.
In this burning house, I met a monk's discourse
In this fiery wasteland, I think of travelers moving on.
Like an inchworm long curled in mud
Thistles and thorny weeds grow first.
A sick body long coupled with worry
Deepening poverty further torments me.
Yet I still hope on this fearful road
To once chant a song of triumph and return.