The Sui emperor, in his wild revelry, carved the solid earth into a canal.
Ten thousand vessels sailed southeast, as the four seas suffered from rampant floods.
Righteous banners were raised in Jinyang, silken sails entered Yangzhou.
Yet Yangzhou he never returned from, the capital turned to mounds and ruins.
Alas, the waters of the Bian Canal, to this day, their ailment remains uncured.
The world says the Bian Canal brings benefit, but I am anxious for its waters.
Gain and harm—how could I truly know? I shall try to speak of their origin.
The Bian waters run deep and long, the Bian current swift and strong.
For a thousand li it drains the earth's vital breath, for ten thousand ages it toils human schemes.
Ships and barges follow in endless procession, the transport of provisions never ceases.
One man's mouth and belly are served, while a hundred clans exhaust their fat and oil.
The people's strength is delivered to the state, not a peck of grain dare they keep.
The regional lords supply the royal capital, not a foot of rent dare they retain.
The imperial granaries tower high with grain, redundant soldiers eat without shame.
In the Shanglin treasury, coins rot on strings, musicians seek jesters and players.
I wish to block the Bian waters, I wish to wreck the official boats.
I beg you, sire, to simplify your gifts and grants, I beg you, sire, to restrain your fiscal demands.
The royal domain spans a thousand li square, the states' resources would suffice all around.
Abolish all transport commissioners, enfeoff anew the wealthy and prosperous lords.
Under heaven, no grain need be shifted afar; each province feeds itself within its borders.