What suits my life in this rustic abode?
I plant mulberry trees, a homestead's code.
Fields and gardens encircle my dwelling place,
Stretching no farther than ten li in space.
A slow horse is enough for me to ride,
Merely a means to travel by my side.
I only know to keep these nags of mine,
How could I recognize a steed divine?
The north wind chills in the twelfth lunar month,
The Taihang Mountains wear a violet robe.
The sovereign's command burns urgent as fire,
Beacon fires flare atop the city spire.
Snow lies deep, steeds frozen, fallen low,
Ten men cannot lift them, try as they may.
Military law has clear decrees to show:
Those who lag behind shall face death's blow.
Leaning on the saddle, I long for noble steeds,
Holding the reins, I yearn for legendary breeds.
Seeking them in vain, my heart fills with despair,
Trembling, my eyes are brimming with tears there.
An old wood-gatherer nearby overhears,
Whispering to himself, mocking with jeers:
In peace, one should always think of peril's day;
In danger, act as if on an easy way.
To seek aid only when crisis is at hand,
Leaves you in frantic plight, futile and unmanned.
Preparedness averts calamity's strife,
The ancients bequeathed this profound truth of life.
In ordinary times, when all is calm and still,
The splendid stables stand secluded on the hill.
Fine grains and lush grass, abundant and rich,
Feed ten stablemen without a single hitch.
The nags lie sated, pillowed side by side,
Feasting on free meals, devoid of shame or pride.
Bo Le, who knew fine steeds, would come and say,
Urging with advice, time and again his way.
Swift hares and noble steeds, day after day,
Were led through the market, on display.
For love of wealth, a thousand coins in hold,
Stingy and greedy, they left them unsold.
Now facing hardship, trials hard and long,
I strive to encourage myself, to be strong.