Jia Yi wept for current affairs,
Ruan Ji wept at the crossroads.
Tang Sheng now also weeps,
Different eras share the same grief.
Who is this Tang Sheng?
Fifty years old, cold and hungry.
He does not grieve for lack of food,
Nor grieve for lack of clothing.
What he grieves for is loyalty and righteousness,
When grief is extreme, he weeps.
When the Grand Commandant struck the rebels,
When the Minister scolded the bandits,
When the high official died at the hands of fierce foes,
When the remonstrator was exiled to barbarian lands—
Whenever he sees such events,
His voice rises and tears follow.
Often, hearing of his style,
Common scholars still might criticize.
I pity your hair half white,
Yet your resolve never wanes.
I too am one of your kind,
Melancholy, what can I do?
Unable to voice my weeping aloud,
I turn to writing Yuefu poems.
Each piece has no empty words,
Every line must fully admonish.
Their merit surpasses the Yu's admonitions,
Their pain exceeds the poet's laments.
I do not seek lofty tonal rules,
Nor strive for bizarre phrasing.
I only sing of the people's suffering,
Hoping the Son of Heaven will know.
If the Son of Heaven does not know,
I willingly endure contemporaries' ridicule.
Good medicine tastes bitter,
A plain zither's sound is sparse.
I do not fear the anger of the powerful,
Nor mind the criticism of kin and friends.
People, finding no other way,
Call me a madman.
Whenever banditry subsides,
Or when clouds and mist part,
I just raise my voice and sing,
Hoping Heaven's hearing might lower.
Singing and weeping, though names differ,
The feelings they stem from share the same end.
I send you these thirty pieces,
To serve as our shared words of weeping.