Five-colored clouds drift, guarding the celestial pass;
Carriages of gold, treasures piled high as mountains pass.
Sealed above with three official stamps in a row,
Most are court officials, dignified and aglow.
Every drop of grease, every thread, drains the people's life;
Fresh whip marks on old scars, renewed with pain and strife.
East and west, banners rise, striding the starry dome;
Public and private bare, livelihood finds no home.
Even when harvests are rich, no stores are kept in sight,
How can they withstand the ruin of flood and drought's blight?
Yellow-faced, withered-necked, they lie in ditches and holes;
Badger-like slaves and wolfish sons grow wildly greedy souls.
Ceasing plow, sighing for swan's ambition, broad and high;
Riding an ox, reading history, awaiting hardship nigh.
Suddenly, like a demon bird shrieks at dawn's clear air,
A mud pellet needs no startling shot to cause despair.
Who plays with this, amplifying its sound and might,
Making swarms of gnats rush to vinegar, sour and bright?
Bamboo soldiers, a rabble, child's play from the start;
Rosters long worm-eaten, the heart chills, falls apart.
Alas, a lifetime narrower than a palm's spread;
Gazing north to the divine capital, twin tears shed.
The state has its laws; who dares to transgress their bound?
Aid its virtue, guard against the people's cunning found.
How could it ever lend to foul and violent hands?
When sickness enters heart and spine, when will peace grace the lands?
The grand, upright vital force will not be quenched for long;
Since ancient times, the southeast brews much that goes wrong.
Who will emerge from Mount Hua, clapping hands with a laugh?
In his sleeve, three feet of rivers and mountains, a wide epitaph.