I've heard of the Tang's Lady Li,
Renowned as a virtuous wife.
With her own strength, seven funerals she did see,
Some said such feat was rare in life.
Who knew the Cai family's dame,
Her deeds would prove to be the same.
Not just in household duties she'd excel,
But in all acts, her grace would dwell.
Filial to those she held in awe,
Kind to the lowly, without flaw.
Knowing where righteousness lies,
She'd see it through until it dies.
"My life has reached its bitter end,
My marriage met woes without mend.
My kin have almost all passed away,
Their bones, with nowhere to lay.
Though I'm a widow left behind,
My heart is of a true man's kind.
I take the burden as my own,
Not forgetting it, even alone.
I only fear my plans may fail,
How can I care for cold or hail?"
So she gave up her means to live,
For funds the dead's farewell to give.
Her face knew no ointment or cream,
Her head no hairpin, no diadem.
Gold and pearls she sold in the mart,
Embroidered robes played no part.
No more belongings in her sack,
Only the clothes upon her back.
She nearly cut her hair so fine,
But kept her skin, by luck, in line.
What she gained was through bitter pain,
What she saved, from efforts plain.
For ten long years she persevered,
Yet felt her task was still unclear.
Beneath the sun, she sought good ground,
A fitting burial site she found.
Eighteen funerals, all at once,
Found their rest, their final response.
With her own hands, she planted pines,
Her body smeared with mud and signs.
No time to bind her feet with care,
Only to toil, her limbs laid bare.
Those at home sighed within the room,
Travelers wept where roads did loom.
Even birds joined in the mournful cry,
Men thought to bring tools, standing by.
Souls in the long and dark night's keep,
Their joy, one can imagine, deep.
Within the lush and blessed town,
No corpse upon the road lay down.
Her family's affairs she settled well,
Her heart found solace, yet grief did swell.
Her righteousness could dry the sea,
Her steadfast deeds make mountains flee.
Her lonely faith pierced the white sun,
Her hidden light outshone the rainbow's run.
I've heard of ancient heroines bold,
Their remarkable tales often told.
To die for honor is easier done,
To hold one principle, under the sun.
But as for Lady Zhang, we see,
She makes us sigh most mournfully.
Who will write the filial wife's tale?
Who will carve the stone, without fail?
There's also an old man from Huai,
Who composed this Suiyang verse, nearby.
I send this record to Historiographer's hand,
Lest this story fade from the land.