My state is but a tiny town,
In Xinchou year, by fire laid down.
I was then fifteen years of age,
Like a wasp in a boundless cage.
I fled to the city's north gate,
Still recalling my hair's twin state.
In autumn heat, mid-July's day,
Fierce flames in roaring blazes sway.
At noon, hungry, with naught to eat,
A pear from a branch, my treat.
Childish at heart, I did not know
To shoulder burdens, still too slow.
My father rose from scholar's way,
Wronged, he fled in disarray.
The red walls barely did survive,
Our small house barely stayed alive.
My ancestors' old dwelling place
Could not escape this fiery race.
Two or three uncles' families poor,
Their modest wealth could not endure.
The burning cruel, their lives turned bleak,
Each hardship made their futures weak.
The elders gradually passed away,
They once taught me, I still obey.
Fields and houses all scattered, gone,
On rivers, a lone boat sails on.
Long in exams and posts I strove,
Luckily, in official robes I wove.
In middle age, a plot I sought,
To match my wishes, as I thought.
Facing south, Ziyang Hill stands high,
Wuliao to its left, nearby.
In front, flowers and trees I grow,
Behind, vegetables I sow.
War arose, bandits did appear,
Ten thousand books, like broken ware.
In Yīwèi, ninth month, disaster came,
Heaven spared this humble frame.
A stalwart man of seventy years,
I steer my boat through joys and tears.