Years ago, passing through Raozhou, one thing struck me as strange.
Women bathed in the clear stream, but only by day, never by night.
Upstream, they washed off grime and filth; downstream, they drew water for home.
For offerings to Buddha and ancestors, they shared it as if savoring sugarcane.
At dawn and dusk, they sold fish and shrimp; in sun or rain, they toiled in the fields.
Gathering firewood or bearing heavy loads, they worked alongside their husbands.
Bathing in sullied waters—was it not improper? Such disregard for ritual was shocking.
I, lodging as a traveler then, broke into a sweat at the sight.
I could not speak my mind, let alone dare to mock or chide.
In stillness, I pondered the world's affairs—boundless reasons for sorrow and sigh.
Since King Wen's passing, civilizing influence has not reached beyond the Central Plains.
From Ba and Kui to Min and Yue, they still feel shamed before Hua-Xia's culture.
Men do not till the fields; women do not tend mulberry and柘.
Inside and out, they act like men, marrying off mostly by their own choice.
Amid clouds and hills, they sing freely; in hot springs, they splash and play.
Adorned with flowers, they become brokers, dominating the city markets.
With half their hair styled in shops, their laughter is full of cunning and guile.
They sport novel, heavy makeup, gathering to set prices for goods.
Foolish husbands and平庸 servants bow their heads, enduring humiliation.
My own Min region is like this—how can I mind other places?
Of Fuzhou's thirteen counties, I thankfully dwell in a remote corner.
Ten li near the county town, this custom alone remains unchanged.
One day I came to Gutian, just as rice shoots were pulled in early summer.
Their blue skirts half-tied, they stirred mud and water, transplanting seedlings.
In every task, they are not unskilled; their status allows no pretense.
In the era of the Three Kings and Two Emperors, human relations were紧密无缝.
The ancient Jifang was like Dangtu; the Feng River now is like Chan and Ba.
They abhor evil as wolves, crave ritual as a delicacy.
There were no trysts in mulberry groves, nor dances on terraces and towers.
The whole state might seem mad, yet only the year-end蜡祭 brought frenzy.
In their prime, they farmed and wove; with graying hair, they could rest.
What's long seen should seem normal; sudden difference truly startles.
I urge you just to tend your fields; such matters should be forever dismissed.
If you can heed my words, I'd share chickens and pigs in the same社.