My home lies at the foot of Mount She,
With less than five qing of fields to own.
More than half have been lost or given away—
Was it not for your future I've sown?
Warfare has swept across rivers and seas,
With tumult raging for over ten years.
My library, nearly ten thousand scrolls, lies scattered,
Leaving but a few beams in desolate arrears.
Even if I sold all that remains,
Fate is a matter of Heaven's designs.
All my life I've scorned the pursuit of wealth,
Letting gold disperse like smoke in thin lines.
Who would have thought my temples now frost-white,
My belly often empty, with little to dine?
Free from worry, one might not age fast,
So I let a hundred cares this heart entwine.
The joyful may not live long,
And death may come to me before my time.
A guest lately advised me
That I should plan my tomb and burial site.
My children, do not fret too much—
The grave plot will come by its own right.
A single chicken suffices for sacrifice,
Old cotton enough for a shroud, plain and light.
But guard against vulgar customs,
And Buddhist rites that clamor through the night.
Master Zhu compiled the Family Rites,
Which I've long since recorded in writing clear.
A father's poverty burdens his son—
Can this not stir a heart sincere?
Examining my conscience, I find no shame;
Compared to the world, I stand somewhat austere.
My purse holds nothing of material worth,
But piled drafts of three thousand poems are here.
I dare not hope to match Fang Weng,
Who left ten thousand verses far and near.
The house I dwell in at Yanling
Has partly yielded its eastern side.
An old neighbor seeks vegetable plots—
I'll soon beg for the western ground beside.
Now I wish to pack my provisions
And sail a boat upon the River's tide.
Farewell to dreams of the Qilin Pavilion's fame,
Nor would I drool for the Yuanding's claim.
If old friends might lend a helping hand,
It's not for a swift return I aim.
Ziyang's governance is truly fine;
I'll take you there to join the immortals' train.