In ancient Feng County of Xuzhou,
There is a village called Zhu-Chen.
Over a hundred li from the county seat,
Mulberries and hemp lush and misty.
Looms clatter, shuttles sound *zha zha*,
Oxen and donkeys move in crowds.
Women draw water from the stream,
Men gather firewood on the mountain.
Remote from county, few official duties,
Deep in hills, folk customs pure.
Having wealth, they do not trade;
Having men, they do not join the army.
Every household keeps to village work,
White-haired, they never leave their gates.
Born as villagers,
Die as village dust.
Old and young in the fields,
Meeting, how joyful they are!
The village has only two surnames,
Generation after generation intermarrying.
Kin, distant, live in clans;
Young and old roam in groups.
Yellow chickens and white wine,
Joyous gatherings not spaced ten days apart.
The living do not part far,
Marriages seek close neighbors first.
The dead are not buried far,
Graves mostly surround the village.
Thus settled in life and death,
Not tormenting body or spirit.
Therefore they live long lives,
Often seeing great-great-grandsons.
I was born in a land of rites and righteousness,
Orphaned and poor from youth.
Vainly learned to distinguish right and wrong,
Only brought myself toil and hardship.
World's laws value fame and doctrine,
Scholars esteem caps and weddings.
With these I shackled myself,
Truly a greatly mistaken man.
At ten, I understood reading;
At fifteen, could compose essays.
At twenty, raised as *xiucai*;
At thirty, became a remonstrance official.
Below, burden of wife and children;
Above, grace of sovereign and parents.
To continue the family and serve the state,
All hopes on this unworthy body.
Recall when travels first began,
Up to now, fifteen springs have passed.
Lone boat thrice went to Chu,
Gaunt horse four times passed through Qin.
Day travel leaves a hungry look,
Night rest brings no peaceful soul.
East and west, never staying long,
Coming and going like floating clouds.
War and chaos lost my homeland,
Flesh and blood mostly scattered.
South of the River and north of the River,
Each has lifelong kin.
Lifelong, parting all day long,
News of the dead comes years apart.
Morning worries, lying till dusk,
Evening weeping, sitting till dawn.
Grief's fire burns the heart's core,
Sorrow's frost invades the hair roots.
A whole life of suffering like this,
I long envy the villagers.