Last year on the seventh day of the seventh moon,
In the duty chamber, alone and at leisure, I sat.
The western sun sank below the Purple Tenuity,
The eastern window glowed with the blue-lattice light.
Dew-laden willows: cicadas suddenly sang;
Wind-blown curtains: swallows frequently passed by.
Silent, silent, the steps of the red peony—
A single hibiscus flower bloomed.
Times were peaceful, no edicts to draft;
My nature placid, forgetting self and things.
Blankly, what was there to strive for?
Lying crosswise, I slept a deep sleep.
I dreamed I entered the Land of Nothingness,
Where butterflies were exceedingly tiny.
Who would have thought, in this secluded strictness,
I'd find myself indulging in laziness?
A palace eunuch came to proclaim the decree,
An imperial poem ordered me to compose a match.
Startled, I solemnly donned cap and gown,
Bowed and danced, breaking the mossy green.
My swift brush raced like dragons and snakes,
The elegant melody spread like metal and stone.
A splendid sound for a hundred generations—
Yet it was but a forced continuation of the task.
At dusk, I followed the Prime Minister out,
Feeling as if I had fallen from heaven.
Returning home, I prepared for the Begging for Skills,
With wine, dishes, and melons and fruits in between.
Seafood mixed with seasonal flavors,
Arrayed in abundance and variety.
The family rejoiced in cheerful mirth,
Children at play danced with swirling grace.
Favor and disgrace just now like a shock—
Rise and fall suddenly turned to disaster.
In the ninth month, exiled to Shangyu,
Bound and restrained, again in dire poverty and hunger.
A phoenix's grace trapped by an owl's scare,
A steed's leg turned lame like a turtle's stumble.
The mountain town already remote and crude,
The inn even more cramped and narrow.
Summer drought killed wheat and grain;
Spring frost blighted flowers and trees.
My parents are extremely aged and feeble;
My own fate, how full of hardship!
A young child cries before me;
My wife lies ill to my left.
My dark hair half withered and fallen;
The purple ribbon hangs empty, dragging down.
A traveler's plans, like a fish out of spring;
The passing years, like ants on a grinding stone.
Last night, the mat and pillow were cool;
To the western suburbs, suddenly, the Fire Star flowed.
The River of Stars' posture clear and shallow;
The Cowherd and Weaver Maiden's figures graceful.
The soil of Shang is barren and lean;
The people of Shang long wearied and sick.
Frost and drought surely cannot be borne;
Floods and waterlogging again bring no relief.
The residents barely have enough to eat;
Traveling merchants find no passage for goods.
The prefecture small, a few thousand households—
Tonight, only worry and sighing.
My son begged for a peach;
Emptying the market, we got one.
The whole family burst into loud laughter;
The furrowed brows slightly relaxed.
Reflecting on this one year's span,
Honor and disgrace both extreme.
Fortunately, I have the Dao to rely upon;
Thus I can keep my heart at peace.
In poverty, I remain but a traveler;
In success, I'd ascend to aid the king.
A gourd may be tied and left hanging;
Chaff may be tossed and winnowed.
To critique the phoenix is not worth mentioning;
Losing a horse, let me console myself.
Acceptance and compliance—I trust my life;
There is nothing that must or must not be.