The gorge stream teems with hidden rocks,
The water's form shifts thousand-fold each day.
I do not fear the rapids' sudden shocks,
But dread the sight of churning whirlpools' play.
Some say these eddies are but trifling things,
That danger's scale has intervals of peace.
Yet they arise when no such peril brings,
Defying logic, granting no release.
A smooth advance, like silk with iron's press,
Then, without cause, a bolt of cloth upturned.
Sudden as boiling cauldron in distress,
Or whirling tea mill's furious pace that's learned.
The force within forms hollows deep and dire,
Its rage appeased, a halo rings the spread.
A moment's calm can briefly quell the fire,
Then swift renewal strikes with dizzying dread.
Floating white foam begins to rise and seethe,
As if some lurking whale spouts from below.
Terrifying waves in furious wrath now breathe,
And fear returns—a hidden turtle's blow.
The boatman stares, his spirit stripped away,
The raftsman gasps, his body drenched in sweat.
He hesitates before this mighty fray,
Then bravely rushes to the battle met.
Escaping being swallowed by the tide,
Yet fearing like a tumbleweed to spin.
A shout—the punt-pole breaks, cast aside,
Rush to save—the bamboo cable, thin.
A struggle fierce, nine deaths upon the prow,
Ten thousand pains while hauling on the stone.
Onlookers watch on thin ice, trembling now,
Swept past as swift as lightning's flash has flown.
I once came through, my carriage-driver chid,
And mountain perils I had tasted all.
Now beating oar, I swear as then I did,
Why should I fear the river's wrathful brawl?
Long as Three Gorges, booming waves resound,
My tiny reed-like boat is tossed and swayed.
No frantic haste to cup a hand is found,
Nor bare-headed delay that might have stayed.
The Son of Heaven grants these boots to me,
The River God dare not treat me as sport.
Just urge the drums in thunderous decree,
To aid the sturdy oars in brave escort.