So many green and blue hills, but to what avail?
This tiny creature left Hua Tuo powerless!
Hundreds of villages choked with weeds, men wasted away;
Thousands of homes deserted, ghosts chanted mournfully.
Motionless, by earth I travel eighty thousand li a day,
Surveying the sky I see a myriad Milky Ways from afar.
Should the Cowherd ask tidings of the Plague Spirit,
Say the same griefs flow down the stream of time.
The spring wind blows amid profuse of willow wands,
Six hundred million in this land all equal Yao and Shun.
Crimson rain swirls in waves under our will,
Green mountains turn to bridges at our wish.
Gleaming mattocks fall on the Five Ridges heaven-high;
Mighty arms move to rock the earth round the Three Rivers.
May we ask Mr. Plague: "Where do you want to go?"
Paper barges aflame and candle-light illuminate the sky.
