| 英譯： |
Deep the waters of the Black Pool, coloured like ink;
They say a Holy Dragon lives there, whom men have
never seen.
Beside the Pool they have built a shrine; the authorities
have established a ritual;
A dragon by itself remains a dragon, but men can make
it a good.
Prosperity and disaster, rain and drought, plagues and
pestilences—
By the village people were all regarded as the Sacred
Dragon's doing.
They all made offerings of sucking-pig and poured libations
of wine;
The morning prayers and evening gifts depended on
a "medium's" advice.
When the dragon comes, ah!
The wind stirs and sighs
Paper money thrown, ah!
Silk umbrellas waved.
When the dragon goes, ah!
The wind also—still.
Incense-fire dies, ah!
The cups and vessels are cold.
Meats lie stacked on the rocks of the Pool's shore;
Wine flows on the grass in front of the shrine.
I do not know, of all those offerings, how much the
Dragon eats;
But the mice of the woods and the foxes of the hills are
continually drunk and sated.
Why are the foxes so lucky?
What have the sucking-pigs done,
That year by year they should be killed, merely to glut
the foxes?
That the foxes are robbing the Sacred Dragon and eating
His sucking-pig,
Beneath the nine-fold depths of His pool, does He know
or not?
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