Southern Quan is ever windy, but this gale stands supreme.
First, startled by the halo round the moon, then hearing heaven's eerie scream.
Where does this roaring surge come from, so fierce and uncontrollable?
Ten thousand holes howl in furious strife, sun, moon, and stars turn dim and dull.
It overturns crumbling walls and fences, breaks pines and junipers down.
Tiles fly halfway to the sky, thatch is swept beyond the town.
Rice flowers, heavy with grain, are blown; unripe fruits fall, stems torn away.
Mountains and rivers lose their usual face; plants and trees meet a dire day.
Swift as the goose that fled past Song, yet sadder than the沛 song's despair.
Who claims the Chu tower wind was mighty? The Zhou郊 storm seems unaware.
Though it may not last a full morn, has it not already wrought great harm?
Alas, my hair has turned to white, beneath this black official's form.
I worry for the west field's crop, not yet ask for the southern sea's pearl.
My heart feels like Han Yu in the hurricane, divining like Su Shi's fateful swirl.
I burn incense, plead to the vast sky; ask the elders how to guard and brace.
Gradually, the clouds settle their hue; slowly, the rain begins to grace.
The winnowing fan's toss slowly stills; I'll see the vital breaths embrace.
The folk repair their broken homes; the old guard warns the marching pace.
Five strings sing of Shun's lute's grace; a single line chants Yan's stream's trace.
Away, not waiting for the melon's turn; homeward, in time for perch and fern.