Massed clouds, ink-dark, as day draws to its close,
Light and dark in swift flux, a downpour flows.
At midnight, water's roar shakes my hard bed;
At dawn, I step outside, in awe and dread.
Whirlpools, vast and deep, devour the shore;
Fierce currents surge and through the center roar.
At noon, the rain pours down in endless strands,
Ditches and fields leap with turbid, yellow sands.
A black wind rages, thunder strikes the ground,
Waves rear their heads, three zhang and more are found.
Gnarled ancient trees are wrenched up by the root;
Steep, aged house-beams and rafters come apart.
Like ten thousand hooves of swift steeds in attack,
Or a hundred spirit-drums, a deafening crack.
Like sharp troops storming, city walls laid low,
Or a roaring tiger making valleys go.
Onlookers lose their spirit, eyes grow dim;
None near the stream, above or down, feel calm.
Climbing to high ground, calling for a boat,
The boatman leans on helm, dares not to float.
Towards evening, silence falls, the tumult dies,
Broken clouds reflect the sun in clear skies.
Birds fly beyond the bounds of the vast sky;
Pale mist hangs light, the hills stand green and high.
I raise my cup, fill it, thankful to be sound,
Yet summon back my soul, still trembling round.
In former years, autumn floods drowned half the wall;
The whole household, nine deaths, one life in thrall.
Today, recalling it, the pain just sets;
At sight of these great waves, my heart fears yet.
I've heard mountains force the river round Pillar Base,
Gorges bind the stream to crash on Yanyu's face.
Fish, dragons, monsters make their home down there,
Wind and waves run wild, endless in their blare.
Small streams are usually clear and shallow, still,
Their ripples motionless, smooth as a board's fill.
Fords are wadeable, deep parts bridged with ease,
Yet once they seethe, they turn to boundless seas.
Word has it dikes burst, mountains split and broke,
A black flood-dragon wrought strange havoc as it woke.
It tore cliffs, moved rocks with a crude, mighty force,
Leaving six or seven homes without resource.
A century-old dry grave still drifts and strays;
Sudden change turns men into fish in a daze.
Have you not seen? Last year, from fourth to seventh moon, no rain,
Every mountain brook and stream dried up in pain.
River-dwellers died then of scorching heat;
Hill-dwellers now by drowning meet defeat.
Low fields were choked with dust, a yellow blight;
High fields are buried now in sand, pure white.
Alas! How frequent are these disasters' blows!
Who will take on the task of saving those?
Who will take on the task of saving those?
Blue Heaven, Blue Heaven, truly see our woes.