East of the house, a foul water ditch, an owl falls, crying mournfully.
Blue mud covers both wings, flapping, flapping, it cannot leave.
A crowd of children shout, summoning each other, tiles and rubble vie to be first.
Considering its lifelong deeds, killing it would also be fitting.
It snatched and stole without shame, full and satisfied, it played in the sky.
On sunny days it claimed the scenery, in high winds it freely followed.
It then soared above phoenix flocks, would it deign to glance at lowly swans?
Now its fate has run out, it met a skilled pellet-shooting lad.
Hitting your vital spot, your abilities cannot be deployed.
What is it to me? I cannot bear to take advantage of its peril.
Begging for your dying life, I bathe you in a clear water pool.
At morning meal, I forgo fish and meat; at night's rest, I guard against foxes.
Knowing myself with no way to repay, receiving kindness long, I still doubt.
Full, it enters deep bamboo thickets; hungry, it comes beside the steps.
Clearly I have no heart to demand repayment, firmly I let it do as it will.
Yesterday it had strength, flying and jumping, playing with the fence.
This morning it suddenly went straight off, never once informing me.
Luck is not your blessing; the heavenly road, you'd best not spy.
In the capital, matters involve shooting; a young lad is not easily fooled.
Do not shy from the mud-pit's disgrace; the mud-pit is a good guideline.