In the east, we buy boats and ships;
In the west, we purchase weapons and tools.
When asked what we intend to do,
We're mustered to guard the mountain and water stockade.
The stockade chief visits my hut,
His manner is fierce and overbearing.
Two officers in black robes come,
Calling us out even in the dead of night.
The conscription calls never cease,
They plunder down to our chickens and pigs.
If provisions fall slightly short,
We're beaten with rods right on the spot.
Driven east, then driven west again,
We abandon our hoes and ploughs.
Having no money to buy swords,
We pawn all the clothes of our family.
Last year, famine struck south of the river;
We fled north seeking food.
But the north is no place to go,
And we cannot return south either.
When my parents gave birth to me,
They taught me to farm and raise silkworms.
I never knew officialdom's harshness;
How could I serve in military ranks?
Holding a spear, I don't know how to thrust;
Grasping a bow, I cannot shoot.
What use is mustering me then?
It's all futile labor, surely in vain.
Drifting, ever drifting anew,
Enduring cold, then enduring hunger.
Who says heaven and earth are wide?
For my lone self, there is no place to rely.
After the chaos in Huainan,
Peace and settlement have not lasted long.
The dead lie piled like hemp stalks;
How many mouths among the living remain?
The desolate village sees the sun set in the west;
Only two or three broken houses stand.
My strength to comfort is insufficient;
What can be done about this turmoil?