On the night of the Mid-Autumn Festival, we admire the moon,
Music from towers and terraces boils in golden caves.
A million pearl blinds roll up the tender cool,
Jasmine hedges bloom, osmanthus flowers brave.
On the eighteenth day, we watch the tidal bore,
Tents and painted ladies greet orchid-oared boats.
Snowy mountains drench the sky, thunder shakes the earth,
Red flags emerge and vie for brocade as floats.
This is Qiantang's old custom, long held dear,
Pampered youths born in splendid mansions grand.
Four seasons feel like spring, no autumn wind,
They only know song and laugh, tears unplanned.
Each year's autumn seems less than the one before,
Gradual decline and aging turn hair white.
Last autumn we still spoke of joy and cheer,
But how full of sorrow is this autumn's night!
Middle households' land rent: thirty thousand bushels,
Floods leave not a single grain to be claimed.
Moreover, war's chaos forces desperate flight,
White jade and yellow gold are all but maimed.
Wealthy men of former courts and markets past,
Half now wander roadways, in rags and distress.
Alley-dwellers, some face starvation's grasp,
Selling congee, couples pawn child servants, no less.
All seasonal rites are now ignored and lost,
Even winter solstice greetings are crudely cast.
Endless rain for days, no sign of clearing sky,
Who watches tides? Who admires the moon on high?
Moon wanes, moon waxes, night after night goes by,
Tide ebbs, tide flows, dawn after dawn draws nigh.
Things seem no different from times of peace and rest,
Save for southward-flying autumn wild geese in the sky.