In Han times, Chang'an snow piled ten feet high,
Du Fu's verse on it is no lie.
This year in Guangling, snow's but a foot deep,
I endure the cold, a turtle in retreat.
They say the poor lanes are always muddy,
With mud this deep, a staff is needed, truly.
Staying indoors for ten days, I haven't stirred,
Going out, I find no path, which way is preferred?
An old friend sends a letter from nearby,
Asking from afar if I'm well, with a long-bearded sigh.
Damp firewood costs like cassia, rice like pearls,
The chimney stays cold, day after day unfurls.
I just light the ancient tripod with coptis root,
Incense smoke coils like beads, congeals in the green canopy's suit.
Several peaks at the window tower steep and grand,
Their spirit rivals Mount Hua, Song, and Heng, across the land.
Boxwood and holly, weighed down by lingering white,
Like jade canopies and feather banners, a celestial sight.
My thatched hut relies on this pure, transcendent scene,
When inspiration comes, why seek the mountains of Shanyin?
The flying swan seems to bring news from Yan's frontier,
I fear the heavy ice will bind the Yellow River's sphere.
The God of Winter, pleased, grows ever more proud,
The year's cycle turns to spring, but warmth is not yet endowed.
Our lord, concerned for all under heaven's cold plight,
His words to the three armies are like warm quilts, bringing light.
I pity myself, unfit as envoy to distant zones,
My model is but the hermit minister among stones.
Rising, I raise my hands, praying to the sun's charioteer,
When will the golden scalpel clear my vision's barrier?