Lying ill in my thatched hut, who cares to visit the sick at my door?
Suddenly a letter from an old friend arrives, dogs bark and chickens clamor in strife.
The letter praises the governor's virtue, his kindness leaves no good deed undone.
Thinking of my need for medicine, he sent a fortune, a profound act of grace.
I've yet to pay respects to the governor, how can I accept this gift stored away?
Such generosity long has been rare, it should be discussed among the ancients.
Eagerly I rise to bow in thanks, but turning in bed, I can only touch my feet.
This differs from sending wine to a drinker; I've failed my old earthen wine jar.
For months I've eaten nothing but gruel, much like Yan Zhenqing in his plain days.
I call my lad to buy new rice, wash the pot and draw murky water from the well.
Vegetables from neighbors cost no more; enough to fill our plates for supper.
Not only will my wife and children be full, but I can also keep my brothers close.
Thus I ease the burden of hunger, and set aside worries of warmth for robes.
Only I, adrift and struggling, lodge here with no land or garden of my own.
Through dozens of southeastern provinces, I've wandered like a beggar at graves.
Now bound by duties at hand, illness ties me, I cannot rush forth.
Often I think of the toil of travel, and fear again the frost and snow's abundance.
If the governor would add his favor, what more is there worth saying of this?
Repeatedly I plan to enter the city, constrained like a colt harnessed to a carriage.
By wind I convey my heartfelt thanks; emotion flows, the brush records my plea.