My family has a mother hen,
In spring, she hatched a brood again.
Over sixty days since they were born,
Their wings and feathers now are grown.
The mother hen will lay eggs anew,
Driving the chicks away, a scattered crew.
Since other chicks no longer stay,
One chick alone refuses to stray.
Refusing to leave, it clings on tight,
Despite her driving, day and night.
The mother walks, on rough or smooth terrain,
Chirping, the chick follows in her train.
Laying eggs might be enough, it seems,
The mother sleeps within the nest, in dreams.
Her offspring, suffering, with no one near,
Climbs on her back as if in tearful fear.
The nest is where the mother finds her rest,
Enduring thirst, forgetting food's behest.
The chick upon her back does lie,
Not parting for a moment, close and nigh.
When I saw this, my heart was glad,
That even beasts such love could have.
I wished to see how it would end,
What final form their bond would send.
Once fully grown, a mature fowl,
It learned the ways of cock and hen's carouse.
Its belly swelled with pregnancy's sign,
Gradually wandering, east and west align.
Wandering to seek food and drink,
To aid its own life's vital link.
Eggs hatched, more chicks come to the fore,
Raising offspring, a labor evermore.
By day it pecks in thorny wood,
By night it claws in muddy mud.
Once following the mother's will,
Now a loving heart for chicks does fill.
The chicks are truly lovable,
Could it bear to leave its mother, old and frail?
The nature of things is not constant, alas,
Making human hearts sigh at what comes to pass.
Creatures are by nature without thought,
Without thought, who can blame what is wrought?
This hen stands out from all the rest,
As if endowed with heaven's behest.
Heaven endowed it with love and care,
Why did this change, too soon to bear?
Moreover, it was without mind,
How can its flesh and blood be defined?
Of all things, man is the most wise,
Who does not think of kin with tender eyes?
Youth and beauty, wife and child,
These are what make our true selves defiled.
At fifty, still he yearned for parents dear,
Like Shun of old, revered far and near.
Burying a son to gain gold, they say,
In recent times, only Guo Ju held sway.
The ancients are gone, beyond our chase,
Speaking of this, tears wet my garment's lace.
These words are enough for self-admonishment,
Thus titled "A Poem on Cherishing the Hen's Sentiment."