Hanzhong was once called Liangzhou,
Land fertile, soil rich, dwellings dense.
Rice fields stretch across slopes, emerald connected,
Flowering trees surround houses, fragrance uncontained.
Yearly in the tail of the second month's spring breeze,
Every household waters flowers and presses ferment for wine.
Long skirts, wide sleeves, low head coverings,
Golden hairpins in ornaments vie in extravagance.
Since the iron cavalry fell upon Wuxiu,
All fine things vanished, swept away with the river.
By the roadside, people desolate, birds vanished,
Only pear blossoms accompany the Cold Food Festival.
Have you not seen the conflagration of those years,
Carrying old and young, fleeing to the southern hills?
Have you not seen the affair by the Aoxiang Bridge,
Where seven or eight thousand soldiers died in a single day?
To die, their righteous souls still have a return;
To live, they drag out a shameful existence like this.
Three people share one bowl's lamplight,
Spinning and weaving all night, hair disheveled.
Eight mouths in half a room,
Boiling gruel, pounding ice, often not enough.
A stone of family grain costs five certificates of money,
Half goes into mouths, half to the officials.
Men shoulder military supplies and go beyond the border,
Women carry baskets and spades to fill moats and return.
Officials know the people are poor and should cherish them,
Soldiers are to guard the people, yet disregard their poverty.
Take this spring of the present year,
Again undergoing the bitterness of war.
Before the dust of battle stirs, strength is already spent,
Like feeding hungry sheep to jackals and tigers.
Mount Liang lofty, waters vast and flowing,
Who knows when the jade-tally envoy will appear?
Passing through Hanchuan yesterday,
Fragrance lined the road, flowers in rows.
Again beating the green alligator drum,
Again holding the white magpie banner,
Rhinoceros-tent behind, chariots hung with owl flags.
Hearing this in camp warms them like padded clothes,
All say, 'Our commander is like a father and teacher.'
The eastern army are all dutiful sons at heart,
It is good that a fine shepherd pacifies and tends them.
If the net is too clear, fish won't thrive;
If the zither is too slack, it won't sound.
Auspiciousness within the army must be sought by oneself,
Merit beyond measure, who else will rejoice?
The autumn wind soughs, blowing upon hibiscus,
The mountain lad urges me to sing of Hanzhong.
Wishing to sing, yet what can be done?
I say to the future Secretary Hu,
Do not let the soldiers be poor again as before.