A clear stream, tiny as a dipper, flows through this great town,
Where myriad cliffs stand steep, the soil barren and brown.
Not one percent of land is fit for fields to be found,
Ninety-nine parts are sharp as sword blades on the ground.
A single acre rises high and sinks down low,
Step by step, level by level, like a ladder in a row.
At the field's heart, one plot can make an acre's space,
While at the edges, one acre splits in many a place.
The wealthy families own a hundred acres, no more,
Thirty or twenty, eighteen or nine, that's their store.
Parents, husband, wife, sons, daughters, and grandsons too,
With one male slave, one maid, the household counts to nine, it's true.
Each mouth consumes two liters of rice every day,
Plus tea, salt, vinegar, sauce, vegetables, and fuel for pay.
Together, daily costs reach two or three pecks in sum,
And still, seven or eight parts to the state must come.
The common folk have fields not reaching ten acres at best,
Just as the sickle's laid down, hunger shows on their chest.
Clerks and village heads come pressing, winter and summer alike,
Collecting taxes, drafting labor, urgent as fire they strike.
Even in years of bumper harvest, brows are knit with care,
One year of failure, and every household faces despair.
In mountain regions, millet is the common fare,
Two children born, but only one they dare to rear.
All because poverty makes them fear starvation's plight,
A sorrowful, lamentable, and pitiable sight.
Yet officials still call you 'the prosperous folk,' they say,
Whips in hand, eyes glaring with anger, come what may.
This year, relentless rains bring nature's cruel test,
Four or five times, torrents surge with violent unrest.
Floating corpses, ruined houses circle down the stream,
Mountains burst, earth cracks, like whales in a furious dream.
Half the hills have turned to watery domains,
Flatlands become dens where the dragon and snake reigns.
The floodwaters retreat late, only to return at dawn,
House corners emerge at morn, by dusk they're gone.
Aloof stand the offices of magistrate, clerk, and aide,
Looking down on four borders, where no homes have stayed.
When waters recede, they return to find no roof overhead,
And those with roofs have lost their means of daily bread.
Peasants leave homes to tend their fields, mile after mile,
Carrying sand, turning stones, shoulders swollen all the while.
For a hundred thousand seedlings on one acre they strive,
One plot divided into two, just to keep hope alive.
In all, one acre yields not a hundred thousand grain,
Buying seedlings already costs half a hundred, in pain.
Planting now feels like cutting flesh, a desperate deed,
Whether harvests thrive or fail, on Heaven's will they feed.
Late fields replanted may not promise any gain,
Early fields, without seedlings, let weeds take their domain.
Black-clad officers come knocking at the door, morn and night,
This year's seedling tax is collected with early might.
Weave the loom swiftly to catch the first levy's call,
Hurry to buy rice, to the seedling granary haul.
And one more word to remember, hold it tight and true:
Never, ever let anyone speak of famine to you.