The village serves demon gods,
Trees as vast as the village stand.
For thirty years this practice has spread,
Witches and wizards pass it down the clan.
Four seasonal rites fill the village year,
Slaughtering every chicken and swine.
The host, worn down by fate,
Once piled kindling, ready to burn it all.
A whirlwind twists heaven and earth,
Torrential rain churns rivers and seas.
Woodcutters with axes in hand,
Drop their tools and flee in disarray.
Deep mountains offer many hiding places,
Barely escaping the whale's devouring maw.
The host gathers neighbors around,
Each holding a cup of wine.
In the temple they bow again and again,
Praying for the crops to survive.
Last year the great witch died,
The young wizard spouts more deceit.
The county's wise magistrate,
Intends to follow Ximen's example.
The plan to burn and purge remains undecided,
Spies take turns riding in carriages.
The temple deep, thorns grow thick,
Only foxes and hares are seen crouching.
The witch claims the minor god transforms,
Proven by thriving oxen and horses.
County clerks all step forth to persuade,
"Please, do not bring disaster to our rural plain."
Over a year, no plan is settled,
The county office, good, is also wearied.
As summer rituals approach once more,
They're ordered just to repair the walls.
Worries of divine wrath linger,
Gifts of silk and jade grow more earnest.
I come beneath the temple eaves,
Flutes and drums clamor loud.
Thus I speak of banishing dark arts,
Eradicating them from the very root.
The host stops his dance midway,
Allows me to elaborate my case.
Mayflies breed in damp places,
Owls gather at dusk.
When the host's wicked thoughts arise,
Their arrogance swells day and night.
Foxes find their hidden paths,
Sneak into the host's own garden.
Rank smells assail from left and right,
Then they retreat to mound and hedge.
Years deepen, trees grow full,
Crooked or straight, fit for axle or shaft.
Shadowy demons all cling close,
A haven for every strange wonder.
The host, single-minded in his fondness,
Has no fence on any side.
Order woodcutters to take axe in hand,
Can strange trees be swiftly shorn?
Host, please listen a while longer,
Let me clarify the pure and murky once more.
A-glue lies in the downstream flow,
Water monsters sport at the source.
The magic medicine soon depletes,
Black waves spew morn and night.
The divine dragon detests the filthy stream,
First strikes the alligator and soft-shelled turtle.
Turtle and alligator dwell in the dragon's den,
Their baleful air ever warm and thick.
The host must hate these wanton rites,
First cast out wickedness and delusion.
Delusion and wickedness infect man's mind,
Like poison eroding essence and soul.
When virtue prevails, no evil stirs,
When power is strong, awe stands firm.
Only when schemes are exhausted do they hold rites,
What grace remains in rites held after?