Ten thousand wells run dry, folk flee the market's heat;
Who drives the fiery wheel to burn the ocean's floor?
The serpent shade falls into jars, the whip's power incomplete;
The thunder god lies trapped, the rain god breathes no more.
Heaven drives demons to peck at the common folk;
The sacred dragon dares not release the rain he holds.
A million trees stand parched, the scorched grain fields invoke;
Cracked fields like tortoise shells stretch out in countless folds.
Lord Bu, distressed by drought, finds nowhere to implore;
He asks the village elders, wise and old.
They speak of Wulong Mountain's sacred water's lore—
A mirror-like pool atop the peak, serene and cold.
In normal times, sweet rains fill fragrant ponds with ease;
It's strange these years how seldom clouds appear.
At times, a flash of lightning shows strange entities;
Or coiling shapes are seen to grasp the upper sphere.
Where gibbons roam and weeds grow thick, no man will tread;
The lord goes forth to beg a bottle of that spring.
He brings the water to the town; three days have sped,
Then overnight, rain comes to grace the riverside pavilion's ring.
I've never seen this mountain's form in all my days;
They say men walk upon the clouds up there.
A muffled thunder, like an infant's cry, conveys
A thousand peaks like mounds—too far to clearly stare.
High mountains, distant lands, give birth to spirits grand;
Don't scorn the water stored as but a basin's worth.
A single drop that falls from mane to mortal land
Can raise great waves where whales and monsters find their berth.
Worldly affairs are like spring blooms and autumn leaves;
The wild horse dust, clouds rise and fade away.
Longshan's eternal dragon never truly leaves,
Each year new scales and mane in transformation play.
He hides his power deep within a palace dim;
The careless eye sees not the dragon's true design.
Our virtuous lord's good rule now rivals Lu Gong's vim;
His heart connects directly with the dragon divine.
Alas! The weary folk are cut off from the sky,
And face sixteen or seventeen lean years' despair.
Wheat rots, silkworms die, famine's grip is nigh,
Ditches and pits fill fast with bodies, grief laid bare.
Now that the rain has come and rice and millet thrive,
We hope to feast and sing the "Bin" wind's praise.
The dragon's merit to our lord we now ascribe;
Our lord's own merit to the vast cosmos conveys.
Who can compose a hymn to laud this grace profound,
To sound the subtle depths with golden mortar's chime?
Aged, I beat the earth and sing within this mountain ground,
With incense, I revere the sage, Zeng Nanfeng, for all time.