The state and army need much supply,
Officials are pressed to comply.
Officials over counties preside,
Laws and penalties they compete to apply.
Provision is a worry indeed,
But levies also stir pity's seed.
The small county, through chaos, did bleed,
Survivors are truly in weary need.
Large towns have fewer than ten families,
Great clans are feeble, frail as frail can be.
Breakfast is grass roots, nothing more,
Evening meal is still tree bark, poor.
Speaking leaves them breathless, weak,
Mind eager but steps slow and meek.
To press and call already pains the heart,
How much more whipping, to tear apart?
Post stations rush urgent orders down,
Coming and going, tracks cover the town.
No grace of leniency is shown,
Only deadlines, harshly known.
They'd force the sale of children dear,
But speaking it might bring chaos near.
To search their homes through and through,
Yet no means of life come into view.
Hear the talk on roads, mournful and low,
Who knows the grief and wounds they undergo?
Last winter, bandits swept the hill,
Killing and looting, leaving naught until.
They long to see the royal officer's hand,
Nurturing with kindness over the land.
Why instead drive them away once more,
Not letting them live, as before?
To pacify people is the Son of Heaven's decree,
The tally of office is held by me.
If counties fall into chaos and die,
Who then will bear the blame, and why?
To delay and disobey the imperial word,
To bear blame is deserved, be it heard.
Wise men of old valued keeping their place,
Loathed to shift with fortune or disgrace.
It's also said: value holding your post,
Not loving to adapt, at any cost.
But considering the weak, frail and slight,
Uprightness should not be put from sight.
Who will gather the folk songs of the state?
I wish to offer this verse, before it's too late.