Lean fields suffer drought and flood, many acres lie waste and bare.
A good farmer wields his hoe and plough, turning them to rich soil in no time.
Gaunt trees stiffen in wind and snow, their branches twisted and gnarled.
A skilled craftsman carves and polishes, soon shaping vessels fine and round.
Though a man may lack talent, with guidance he can rise above.
I reflect on my own mediocrity, akin to the common fool.
My learning fails to grasp the root, my conduct lacks integrity.
Nine thoughts lose Confucius' rule, three reflections forget Zeng's model.
Turning from the Way, I act recklessly; careless words bring blame upon myself.
Like a lone bird in a burning nest, all eyes draw their bows upon me.
My rushing days are now gone—can a stained jade be polished clean?
A daytime nap, however slight, the Sage's gate condemns, yet spares.
Now sunk in absurdity, compared to that, even more dim and lost.
Still, I rely on the noble's kindness, to cover this lowly man's flaws.
Not yet banished to distant lands, but only by drumbeats reproached.
If faults remain uncleansed, worry and fear will circle without end.
Returning, I confess my ugly traces, wishing to whip my humble self.
Parents sent you forth, hoping for talent and virtue rich.
Friends cheered your departure, dreaming of achievements full.
Not following benevolence and righteousness, but fanning laziness and theft.
Thus deservedly, the crowd turns away—how could many thunder in accord?
Yet I wish to chase the past, from now on plan a proper end.
Hoping to emulate Yan Hui, vowing to follow Duke Mu's rule.
Dare I hope the sun's bright light will shine again in this dark vale?
Driving out stubborn ignorance's sting, shaking off confusion's repeated ill.
This poem stands for bearing thorns—my humble sincerity, earnest and true.