In deep winter, northward I climb the Taihang Ridge,
Where sleet and snow entwine, and winds roar fierce and rigid.
Bears and leopards hide, all birds have fled the scene,
A single path just wide enough for a man to tread.
The servant starves, the horse grows weak, stone steps are slick,
We shiver, sweat, and all our sweat turns into ice.
My wife in sorrow, children wail, yet we press on,
Through countless perils, finally we reach Bingzhou.
Bingzhou has always borne a name of bitter woe,
Today I truly know its fame is not in vain.
Dark smoke and bitter fog at dawn refuse to lift,
The rising sun no longer shines with brilliant light.
I mount the saddle, grasp the reins, head to the town,
My hair in knots, beard bristling, fingers near to freeze.
By charcoal stove I warm the inkstone, dip the brush,
Yet tracing words again and again, they barely form.
Who says strong wine alone can keep the cold at bay?
The wine pot cracks and splits, no way to pour a drop.
Stone-fat fuel in the brazier gives off little heat,
A choking, pungent smoke invades my head and stings.
I look up, shamed by wild geese that freely follow warmth,
Southward they fly with the sun, into vast, distant skies.
And shamed by swallows, knowing well the season's turn,
Their rocky nests suffice to hide their tiny forms.
I came here hoping to repay a debt of grace,
Not for wealth or glory, but through hardship and toil.
The ancients died for those who knew their worth, they say,
I only fear my frozen bones will lie by the frontier.
Do old friends at the court still spare a thought for me,
Wrapped in thick furs, fine shoes, with silken ribbons bright?
They say the north beyond is even colder still,
I wonder how the people there can stay alive.