Le Xuan, unskilled in worldly prose, finds no chance in the exam hall's throes.
A century of starving death, a pity indeed, for human life hangs on the field and seed.
He journeys far to Xirong's distant shore, packs his traveler's gear to return once more.
The river beach and elephant caves hold no fear, yet human hearts harbor dangers severe.
Zeng Ju, once a coastal household head, daily at the yamen pleads his case widespread.
Old Granny He from the countryside, a young man's legacy for his orphaned bride.
The matchmaking crone covets the bride-price gold, marrying the girl to Zeng Ju's household.
The girl, nearing thirty, meets the legal date, selling the land—what room for debate?
Le Xuan trusts himself and trusts others too, unaware both sides lack virtue true.
Zeng Ju's contract craves but silver bright, stolen by He, he sues for land in spite.
The county magistrate in scarlet sits on high, appointed by court, keen and spry.
An old clerk drafts judgments, twisting the law, the magistrate follows texts, flawed and raw.
They detain the matchmaker, Song Wujiu, 'Return my money!'—but what's there to view?
The inspector of eight regions' penal affairs, weighs the eight regions' grievances and cares.
Allows appeals posted on roads wide, no stopping carriages with pleas inside.
Carriages leave at dawn and return by day, crowds by hundreds gather along the way.
From the carriage, summoned, the envoy smiles, moved onlookers weep, their tears in piles.
Why does the smile curl? I'm not wise, he'd not come otherwise.
Why do the moved ones cry? Pleading now is easy, unlike times gone by.
Documents pile high, hard to verify, clerks' faces remain smug, dry.
Le Xuan's words straight as a bowstring's line, the high court's verdict stands, no new sign.
The prefecture supervises Granny He's repayment, clerks hosting guests face hardship's arrangement.
Sixty days pass in delay, public matters unresolved stay.
Clerks come and go, demand wine, wealth, and meat, their appetites never obsolete.
Le Xuan's heart, like wolfberry and chrysanthemum pure, is made to run, raising dust obscure.
Spring rain scatters, spring winds turn, exotic flowers bloom, their greetings burn.
A heap of coins—what worth to proclaim? Alas, Granny He, is she not of human frame?
I'll not dismiss the clerks with a shout, but hold my lute, lie in empty hut, stretched out.