War flares up across the land again,
When will peace finally reign?
Who are these grand planners, I ask,
Have they lost their proper task?
Two years ago, drought struck the central plain,
Many starved in village lanes.
Last year, floods in the eastern command,
People became corpses adrift on the sand.
Heaven's response is never in vain,
Fortune and disaster each follow their chain.
I wish to offer my humble advice,
But no path leads to the crimson palace, nice.
I'd carve my liver to make paper,
And write with my blood, a desperate caper.
Above, I'd cite Yao and Shun, sage kings of old,
Below, I'd invoke Long and Kui, heroes bold.
My words are fervent, full of emotion,
My prose lacks ornate, floral devotion.
Reading it once, I find it strange,
Re-reading, doubts begin to range.
Celery is tasty, so they say,
But offering it to the court is foolish, anyway.
Sealed within my bones, this thought I keep,
Burning bright, a secret buried deep.
Recently I went to the capital town,
Often rode with nobles of high renown.
Their circles held many brilliant minds,
Their discussions left no flaws behind.
They treated me with courtesy rare,
Yet I couldn't shed my outsider's air.
Words reached my lips but dared not depart,
I waited slowly, guarding my heart.
Returning to the army's strife,
Startled, like a caged bird fearing for its life.
For days sometimes I would not speak,
All day long, deception I'd seek.
Seizing leisure, I'd ride my steed,
Aimlessly to empty marshes proceed.
When I meet wine, I get dead drunk,
Do you know for whom this cup is sunk?