I walk the fields, sighing in alarm,
Where parched clods crack in crisscross lines of harm.
Thorns and vile weeds all wither, dry and sere,
How could the millet sprout and grow up here?
An old man by the field begins to speak,
But tears like rain first wet his woeful cheek.
My household of ten mouths dwells west the hill,
We farm for generations, trade no skill.
Each year this field yields grain both fine and good,
Full-bodied rice, a hundred bushels' food.
For public tax and private use, we spare
Enough to cook thick porridge, rich and fair.
This year, dry planting brought but bitter pain,
We carried jars to water fields in vain.
The old granary's stores are all consumed,
The new shoots sparse, as if they were doomed.
For years, ten mouths knew neither want nor fear,
This year, ten mouths grow gaunt and wan and drear.
To starve and fill the ditch, I would not mind,
But dread the tax arrears I cannot find.
Now officers press hard for tax to pay,
Supervisors rush like fire, night and day.
How could this old man joy in their demand,
When not a single grain is in the land?
Moved by his words, so fierce and full of grief,
I smile and say his thought finds no relief.
The Son of Heaven's deep benevolence reigns,
He pities and cares for the poor's hard pains.
Moreover, upright officials rule today,
They will remit the rent and tax away.
Then even in lean years you'll have your fill,
And drink with kin in peace, asleep and still.