There is a poem about the plague, Chairman Mao's "Two Songs of Seven Rhymes: Farewell to the God of Plague":
Green waters and green mountains are in vain, Hua Tuo is helpless, what a little insect!
Thousands of villages are left with dead people, and tens of thousands of households are deserted and ghosts are singing.
Sit on the ground and travel eighty thousand miles a day, survey the sky and see a thousand rivers in the distance.
The Cowherd wanted to ask about the plague god, but his joys and sorrows were all gone.
Thousands of willows bloom in the spring breeze, and the 600 million divine states are all filled with Shun and Yao.
The red rain turns into waves at will, and the green mountains turn into bridges intentionally.
Silver hoe fell from the five ridges of the sky, and the iron arms of three rivers shook due to the earthquake.
May I ask where King Wen wants to go? The paper boat is burning with candles shining in the sky.