Man is the soul of all things, seen everywhere.
Heaven and Earth's life-giving heart, through man, spreads far and wide.
With intent, the Zheng Guo Canal made Guanzhong rich and fair.
Thirty-six weirs' flow made grain in Jiangnan cheap to buy.
Like Yu's great ditches and channels, watering hills and fields with care.
All these are what man can achieve, planning well under the sky.
Where there is strength, it must be used; with knowledge, all can be made clear.
One can also state grand designs, yet not exhaust the sage's sphere.
Like a corner of the earth, from the same cosmic foundation.
Never hindered by the plough, it can also bring sweet libation.
Ponds and weirs cannot compare, nor the well-sweep bring such ease.
Digging wells with windlass adds but toil and weariness.
Whose quiet eye can spy in secret this wondrous transformation?
Of all farming tools, the waterwheel alone wins admiration.
Gathering simple wooden parts, bound with threads of heaven's line.
Interlaced, dispersed, yet joined, each joint in its place divine.
Continuous and generative, like braids or cords that twine.
Thirty spokes share one hub's core, its form and function clear and fine.
Creaking sounds drift from afar, like dragons warring in the field.
Sucking, spouting on its own, in turn its powers yield.
Shaped like the Primal Heaven Chart, moving as Kun's fan revealed.
East and west like stars apart, appearing, hid, their course concealed.
Rising as the Milky Way, lacking but a small degree.
Flowing through green ravines, filling every cavity.
Golden dragon spits jade fluid, swift as lightning's fleeting spree.
Converging into surging waves, sprinkling leftover rain and sleet.
Viewed from far, it pours headlong; seen up close, it avoids the splash.
Though weirs and channels stand apart, its flowing water earns esteem.
Clouds and rain are but illusion; a thousand acres lush and green.
Not only does it beautify rice fields, but also fatten loach and bream.
At noon when the fire-wheel's high, by fields it twists a flying stream.
In his thatched hut, the old farmer dreams a Hua Xu dream serene.
Leisure a hundredfold greater, labor just once a year to mend.
In bright days, Creation toils; in darkness, no ghostly condemn.
God on high rests peacefully, with more care for his children's end.
The River God is put to use, yet feels no shame to attend.
Each human mind holds wondrous craft; wisdom fills the world's extend.
In Qin and Shu it must be so, not just in Fujian, my friend.
This thing is easy to understand, why boast so much in the end?
In idle days with nothing done, I play with brush and ink to send.