I sought a house for two months, in vain,
Poor, not aiming high, what plan could I sustain?
I came and settled in this destitute lane,
Grateful for this shelter, dare I complain?
Broken eaves and pillars, no longer tight,
Tiles scattered, beams exposed, a sorry sight.
No fence or door to bar the entryway,
Dogs and pigs often wander in and stay.
The owner pitied my helpless plight,
And had it patched with mud to make it right.
Who are these craftsmen, swaggering with pride,
Shouting and clamoring, with anger amplified?
A crowd of helpers joined the noisy fray,
Sneering and pressing me for wine to pay.
Returning home, I sighed with deep dismay,
Two days' earnings bought just one pot, they say.
Much demanded, little paid, discontent,
They left me suddenly, as if they went.
Coming back, silence—no one to be found,
Only bare walls with reeds still wrapped around.
Though poor, I still cook my meal each day,
Should I not plan for pot and bowl, I pray?
Leaving doors unbarred was ancient grace,
Now thieves roam openly in every place.
I beg for coins to buy a fence secure,
And learn to bolt the gate from dawn 'til dusk, for sure.
The old neighbor asks what kind of man I am,
Perhaps a scholar clinging to a name.
At court, grand caps and carriages abound,
How many ride as ministers, renowned?
Why cover not your flesh with quilted spread,
But boast as scholar, yet live like the dead?
If deemed unfit, guard a humble home,
You still could choose where peacefully to roam.
Why grieve confined in such a wretched state?
Go forth—what house could not accommodate?
This dwelling low and damp, no need to tell,
Four sides high, middle sunk, no ditch to quell.
Summer rains prolong, the water stands,
Often beneath the stove, autumn fish expands.
I came here first without a careful choice,
Now sit with earthworms, sharing a common voice.
Moreover, beams and rafters rot each day,
Once fallen, not your strength can hold their sway.
Seeking brief safety in a hurried plight,
You risk your life beneath a crushing weight.
Thus know, when poor, one loses self‑regard,
How few meet death as fate, and find it hard?
Old man, your words indeed are wise and true,
But I am trapped, not foolish through and through.