The gorge farmers live a life of utmost toil,
Clearing the mountain peaks for swidden soil.
Red clay, no fertile earth, a barren ground,
Three strokes of axe, a single plot is found.
They show the wisdom of a cave-dweller's art,
Reading the rain by setting fires to start.
When rain arrives, they rush to sow the seed,
Or else no thriving crop will grow indeed.
The wheat ears yellow, cut in even rows,
The bean sprouts green, in lush abundance grows.
Cakes and gruel see them through the summer's span,
Then wait for autumn's millet, full and grand.
The tax on fields is less than one in ten,
They glean the leftovers to eat again.
They've never known the taste of rice so fine,
But pat their bellies, find their fare divine.
I know the ways of farmers in Wu's land,
So let me tell the gorge folk, understand:
The fields of Wu are black and fertile earth,
The rice of Wu like jade, of peerless worth.
Long-waisted grains like slender gourd seeds appear,
Round-headed pearls, each one distinct and clear.
Red lotus rice outshines the wild rice grain,
Its fragrance like autumn orchids' sweet domain.
Some strains from Emperor Shun's time remain,
Some from Champa across the sea were ta'en.
Early and late rice, in the steamer tossed,
Are blown together, quality is lost.
They fear not springtime labor, tending shoots,
But dread the autumn tax, the official suits.
Corrupt clerks swarm like sparrows, rats in spate,
Thieving assistants, locusts of the state.
They seize the surplus, boost the measure's size,
Extort full payment, coin before their eyes.
Two measures yield but one, a cruel exchange,
And rent-collection scars they cannot change.
Pressed further by the weight of private debt,
They flee their homes, no cooking smoke is met.
Glistening cloud-like rice, a meal so white,
In all their lives, they never take a bite.
Those who eat it surely idle hands employ,
While those who grow it drool with hungry joy.
Better the gorge farmer's humble, full repose,
On beans and wheat to see the year's sad close.