My family's trade for generations has been farming,
Toiling in the fields to supply all needs.
No fish to eat, no carriage when I go out,
But I keep to my mulberry and elm, my native soil.
Then came warfare, turning gardens to waste,
Kin scattered, nearly made slaves.
Hungry bellies rumble like thunder, cold pierces the skin,
At midnight, the poor ghost often mocks.
I laugh at myself—this life is truly hard,
How can this body escape the mire?
At last I put aside plow and share, drew close to books,
Taking the classics as my field to till.
Brothers in succession stepped onto the cloudy path,
In our hometown, people often praise the Wu clan.
Though I have ambition, it's but meager,
Ashamed my petty skill is no great art.
For a time, I went forth to meet the hour's need,
And also followed steps toward the crimson court.
Looking back, my talent scant, thoughts dry,
Dare I think I blew the reed like the man of Dongguo?
Since gaining leave to return to field and hut,
I close my eyes to all affairs, ask no more.
Who would have thought I'd receive the tally of Gushu,
A temporary lack of officials led to this appointment.
This region since old times is called fertile,
A thousand li rich in rice and fish.
Nine floods in ten years left fields tax-free,
This year the rice plants fill the dikes.
The people lift their heads, cheering in unison,
Saying such a harvest is unheard of since ancient times.
Suddenly a rain alarms the village lanes,
As if level ground were floating on rivers and lakes.
Prayers at the spirit shrine just as the carriage mounted,
Already I saw the bright sun rise in the east.
Now that this land is settled in its dwelling,
Should the prefect not wish to amuse himself?
He may well cast off his seal and sing of returning.