Yesterday the north wind roared high,
Drifting snow filled the sky.
For a thousand miles, six-petal flowers,
For six days flying without cease.
Deep mountains, a full zhang deeper,
Trees and woods freeze, about to break.
Level ground piled several feet high,
Cloth shops cannot set out their wares.
Covering things, it casts a radiant light,
Shining on people, pure and bright.
The purple frontier—peaks of jade,
The dark sea—a silver palace gate.
Bamboo groves turn to precious stones,
Pine wind sifts jade-like whispers.
Officials come to offer congratulations,
The mood of things also feels joy.
Miasma and pestilence are already dispelled,
Abundant harvests come in season.
The senior official, due to illness and distress,
Requests leave for a full month.
Sick eyes grow dim from the cold,
Headaches arise because of the chill.
Tired of taking decoctions and medicines,
Wine and meat are all discontinued.
Layered curtains reflect upon double screens,
Stove-warmed mats and quilted robes.
Official grain ensures no hunger worry,
Treasury salary faces no lack.
The river-sea of sovereign grace runs deep,
My heart, fed on plain fare, is stirred with fervor.
Children, warm and well-fed,
Face the wind, braving the bitter cold.
Morning demands warm wine against the chill,
Evening requires hot noodle soup.
They know nothing of hunger and cold,
Lamplights warm the night.
The people of Yue take livelihood lightly,
Spring taxes supply fat and blood.
When it comes to wind and snow time,
Daily provisions often run empty.
Gathering firewood and setting nets,
Carrying firewood, the icy road is slippery.
Mouths clenched, no words spoken,
Thighs trembling in thin hempen clothes.
Wild herbs do not fill hunger,
Freezing and starving, many do not survive.
Ashamed of the grace of warm jackets and pants,
Anxious and helpless, I waste away in vain.
Thus I compose this "Song of Bitter Cold",
To tell, as it were, to the children.