Ah, how joyful! In the autumn of the third year of Xianchun, a great harvest year.
From near, the Zhe River east and west, the Yangtze and Huai; from far, the seven Min regions, two Guang, and even Sichuan.
Yellow clouds stretch for ten thousand miles,
Blurring the boundaries of east, west, south, and north fields.
Lowlands and wetlands fill the ditches and ridges,
Rice-transplanting horses break their axles, shoulders red from carrying loads.
Heaven favors us further,
For ten days not a drop of rain falls.
The three borders stir no dust,
What more could the farmers worry about?
But since the fields returned to official control,
The common folk find even chaff hard to come by.
Moreover, successive years of famine and hardship,
Make grass roots and tree fruits precious meals.
Lofty piles of starved bones stretch for a thousand miles,
How many can survive till this year?
They thought they could finally smile with relief,
Rejoicing with wine and meat filling the house.
Who knew not a single grain enters their own gut,
For it all belongs to the public and the master's household.
At night, I hear the neighbor to the east,
A lone maidservant weeping, lying on her back.
I ask, "Who are you?"
She replies, "A poor woman with no food, no child."
This year, the officials managing the public fields are vicious,
Leaving no leftover sheaf or scattered ear for the hungry poor.
The great households, with granaries full to the brim, have none to spare,
Cherishing rice like pearls, hoarding it in their storehouses.
I hear when the Tang emperor had reigned four years,
Three coins bought a peck of rice throughout the land.
Our emperor is no less than the Zhenguan sovereign,
And our ministers are like Fang and Du, wise and able.
Why then is the rice price a hundred times that of Zhenguan?
This ailment must have its source.
Alas! Ah, I know it now.
Ever since the purchase of public fields,
Even a bumper year becomes a disastrous year.
Who is to blame for this? Vast, azure heaven!
There is one more thing even stranger,
My heart fears before I speak of it.
This year, everywhere enjoys autumn harvest,
Why alone in Tiantai, great floods leave not a single grain reaped?
Harvesting not a grain is bad enough,
But the Water element reigns, the Fire element is imprisoned—this matter deeply concerns the fate of the state.
A scholar clings to the classics, debating right and wrong,
Is it not like throwing oneself to the wolves and tigers?