Crossing the sea, waves perilous and steep,
Climbing the mountain, weary are the feet.
Why journey to Red Mirror's shore,
Where sea's corner meets the mountain's floor?
Through rugged rocks, a rough and winding way,
And more, by boat, in danger's sway.
This trip indeed has its intent,
To visit ancient sites, for present lament.
The barren slope keeps traces of the past,
A broken gap, ten zhang vast.
The elders tell me, pointing with a sigh,
Our forefathers' fields, where farming masters lie.
In those days, the grandfathers' line,
Together built this dike, a design.
When the dike was done, all things did thrive,
The masters passed it on, alive.
Rice and crabs were beyond price,
Let alone chaff, of no device.
Once broken, left unrepaired,
The heart is startled, war-drums scared.
Farming families toil year by year,
Land is narrow, how to persevere?
I recall the millet fields of old,
Stony water, mud by the shipload.
The former efforts, alas, are gone,
Who will carry on, from dusk till dawn?
I've heard the regional envoy came,
Asked about the old foundation's claim.
Water works could be explored,
Empty documents, deceit deplored.
Also heard the farming-officers, grand,
Elegant and fine, across the land.
Out at dawn, back when dusk is near,
Mountains and waters, clear and sheer.
No thought for this, their minds elsewhere,
Only seeing official caps in air.
The state urgently levies its due,
Like sparks, documents startle anew.
Farmers have no land to plow,
Yearly income, how to allow?
Now, fortunate, a worthy magistrate,
Wishes to save us from hunger's fate.
Writing a letter to the prefect, clear,
May the planning be as sincere.
I treasure the elders' words, not light,
Not as children's play, in jest or spite.
Imperial envoys observe the wind,
This old man's words, a resource to find.