An iron phalanx charging through ten thousand men,
Or noble steeds that pull the carriage in its train.
The Sage's gate praised their virtue, high and grand,
Their great success was also praised across the land.
Alas, you post-house steeds, I sigh for your plight,
Selling yourselves to sink in mud, bereft of light.
At dawn you run a stage southward with might,
By dusk a hundred miles north, in endless flight.
The whip drives on, without a moment's rest,
Your backs are scarred with sores, a painful test.
In life you had no knowledge, no true sense,
Only in death will your hard service cease, hence.
The salt cart's load was not the worst to bear,
No worn-out curtain planned for you, no care.
Only man makes use of all things under heaven,
To serve his purpose, that's the beauty given.
But if their use is placed in wrong terrain,
To benefit this, that must bear the pain.
Oxen serve to plow and sow the field,
Tortoise shells are drilled for omens to yield.
How unfortunate are ox and tortoise, then,
To serve the schemes and plans of mortal men.
The Buddhists wish for no rebirth, they say,
Their meaning likely glimpsed this bitter way.
Yet why speak of transmigration's wheel,
Bewildering the world with cunning zeal?
That men and beasts exchange their forms, they claim,
Ten thousand times, there's no such truth, in name.
The fur and skin endure distress and pain,
While kings and nobles in luxury remain.
They say all are affairs of former lives,
Driven by karma that each one receives.
I alone say it's nature's own decree,
How could each be selfish, only for 'me'?
Life confined within the body's frame,
Death scatters into void, without a name.
Nature same, but substance not the same,
To shift and change, where is the claim?
To love mankind and also love all things,
Man should then approach what goodness brings.
If one lacks love, in heart and soul,
Why grieve a single horse's death as goal?
I write this song of post-house steeds,
A mournful verse with purpose that proceeds.