Alas, the people of Heyan, what crime brought this calamity?
Bandits raid from other lands, alarms last for ten days straight.
The officials panic excessively, the people's homes find little peace.
Yesterday they levied arrow feathers, today they press for armor scales.
Heavy taxes extort temple gold, under what pretext is this extortion?
They openly recruit local soldiers, to together guard the city walls.
The embroidered envoy suspects deceit, urgently issues conscription orders.
Hands tied, not a single man, the tasked officer acts on his own authority.
The county magistrate comes to Heyan, able men are coerced by threat.
Commoners fear the tattoo of ink, hesitant, their plans not yet aligned.
Some mouths utter complaints and sighs, their hearts are truly first to quake.
Why have the government troops come, to wildly plunder like fishermen?
Homes suffer burning and destruction, old and young maimed by blade and spear.
From mountain paths to open roads, corpses pile and interlace.
They dare behead innocent men, falsely report victory at the watchtower gate.
How brave you are at killing people, how cowardly at killing bandits!
This land's customs are pure and simple, no bully uses force to decide.
Eyes have never seen spear or halberd, families all tend to plough and harvest.
How could they have rebellious schemes? Who among them is a Jing or Nie?
Even if Yellow Turbans wield their might, our soil their feet have never trod.
Officials show great inhumanity, making your blood be spilled first.
A thousand households gathered, thriving, generations of farming and silk.
At one glance turned to mounds and ruins—are they not all my subjects?
Who knows if this strange affair does not reach the bandits' spies?
Should they strike our undefended core, our small fort truly stands in peril.
Enemies abound within the boat, still less hope for oarsmen's zeal.
A scholar's heart worries for the world, at midnight sleep will not draw near.
I write this poem to mourn the wronged, finished, tears soak my cheeks.
I turn to hate heaven's gate so high, that does not connect with common lanes.
A man should value daring speech, not mumble like a timid maid.