Water Dragon Chant

Intro: The dew is cold, the smoke is chilly, the demon cultivator is ancient, riding a bone crane, a desolate cry. Black water in autumn, the Ghost Gate's lamp is pretty, a spectral sound arrives. Recalling the Xiao Xiang, the distant shore flowers bloom, by Meng Po's bridge. Gazing afar at Naihe, hesitating to descend, following impermanence, the Yin wind rises. One must believe the vastness of the netherworld, to whom can letters be burned and sent? The nine levels of hell, diagonally arrayed, tongue-plucking and oil-boiling. Holding heaven and earth, beneath Fengdu City, shadows sway in the cold water. Remembering the burial clothes not yet shredded, paper figures sweep the pestle, faces bloodless.