In exile as the year draws to its close,
At dawn I rise, the kitchen cold, no smoke.
Thankful for the lovely sun,
Hanging by the southern eaves.
High noon already several zhang high,
Warm and mild as a spring day.
My gate faces the Shangyu road,
A traveler rests before the eaves.
An old man and a sickly wife,
Their hair and temples both turned white.
Three children wail and weep,
A widower alone, forlorn.
No peck of grain for journey's food,
No hundred coins for travel fees.
Huddled together, having no meal,
Their faces show hunger and cold.
I ask them whence they come,
They answer: our home was in Chang'an.
Last year drought struck the passes and the capital,
They fled to Rangchuan for food.
The wife died, buried in a foreign land,
Poor travelers long for their old home.
Though the old home is not far,
The Qin Ridge blocks at Languan Pass.
Deep mountains, six li of cries,
Steep paths, seven turns they name.
Carrying children, begging on the way,
Cold, hungry, and full of peril.
They only fear heavy snow and rain,
To freeze to death in mountain valleys.
Hearing these words of theirs,
I lean on the door and heave a long sigh.
You are a wandering exile,
I am a redundant, idle official.
A demoted post brings no salary,
Serving parents lacks sweet, fresh fare.
Thinking back since I first took office,
Swiftly more than ten years have passed.
High hat, a parasite upon the common folk,
Advancing in rank, long eating plain meals for naught.
Letters and writings all in vain,
Exile is truly what I deserve.
With family poor and parents old,
Seeing this old man, I console myself.