A guest came from afar, speaking of two men.
Mu Zi, at illness's start, lacked all domestic care.
Neighbors wearied of his pleas, the doctor's verdict long set.
Cups and bowls, large and small, lay empty; quilt in tatters, torn.
A dying breath still could stir, old resentment knotted tight.
Eyes, bleak, gazed at the sheep-pool; beard, broken, bristled like hedgehog spines.
Grief and sourness bound his remaining days; howls and cries left as eternal farewell.
To his wife he spoke of plans for days to come, books and strategies not yet complete.
He taught his son to study diligently, no more speaking of fate or time.
To what fate are we, the exiled, cast, while others seize like grass in chaos?
Ling Zi long on the road, a family of ten in fetters bound.
Traveling heavy rivers, just when famine's season struck.
No friend brought wrapped rice; he hurried on, coarse grains his fare.
No one offered a drink, to timely quench his parched and withered thirst.
Alas, Heaven's mandate cut short; pain lies in mourning bands for kin.
Why did the Emperor give you life, the world still hailing you as outstanding?
In his breast, a breath of ten thousand zhang; in his gut, stored grievance of a hundred folds.
Hardships churned in wind and waves; haggard, he fell through frost and snow.
Long a servant, toil made him decrepit; a frail daughter, foolish and lame.
Literature vanished with cold and hunger; the Way extinguished with smoke and flame.
O soul, where will you return? Gone, without a chance to part.
Is the treasury lacking wealth? None to aid the urgent need for medicine.
Are the granaries lacking grain? None to cool the burning heat of belly and gut.
The Son of Heaven, sage, reigns above; within the seas, clarity nears purity.
Why did such a man hold no office? Once dead, how can he live again?
Morning azure and evening purple—spirits rejoice, Heaven does not oppress.
High carriages and fierce steeds—gates are full, the road unceasing.
If such men idly linger, the people then become gluttons.
Lofty and aloof, the world draws not near; square and stern, by ghosts they are seized.
Dare I say talent is precious? How avoid misfortune's bite?
Thinking deeply, tears are drawn; grieving the past, face becomes aged.
Lifting eyes to this desolation; sidelong, my body now feels base and defiled.
Admonitions fall on empty ears; perilous theories spill from a weary mouth.
I write this poem to tell Stone Bridge, merely to comfort cold bones.