The Spring and Autumn records great floods,
Disasters and calamities judged since ancient times.
Last year accumulated flowing waters,
Fields and paddies bred fish and frogs.
This year grain soars in price,
Cauldrons and cookers have nothing to boil.
Then they also pluck from the wilds,
Grasses and weeds cannot sprout.
Stripping and felling extend to mulberries and dates,
Breaking and tearing reach eaves and roof tiles.
Whoever has granaries and storehouses,
Points to this as annexation.
Head taxes and dustpan levies,
Urging and leading under that name.
The strong and able first flee and wander,
The weak and emaciated, how can they manage?
The Son of Heaven worries for the common people,
Envoys' banners fly in the four suburbs.
Morning and evening they give thin gruel,
Military granaries lack abundance.
Those starved to death and dead of plague,
Tumbled headlong into official pits.
Pits full, discarded by the roadside,
Rotten flesh fought over by dogs and pigs.
Often they eat each other,
Wishing to speak, heart startles, soul trembles.
Desolate villages only silent and still,
Evening hours filled with weeping sounds.
Weeping sorrow, sounds unceasing,
Hungry and sick, how can they weep?
Cease weeping, again swallow cries,
Clear blood darkens both eyes.
On the ridges, wheat desires to yellow,
Life entrusted to a single harvest.
When the wheat ripens, how much is there?
People scarce, wheat should suffice.
Even if one gets to taste new wheat,
Alas, the old relatives are gone.
I sing the Cuoyang journey,
The poem done, how can I bear to read it?