The land has seethed for years, in turmoil and strife.
Rice costs a thousand coins, people lose their means of life.
By the city, I farm two qing of land with care.
Hardships can't even cover the tithe tax to bear.
This year's seedlings look even weaker than before.
My homeland property I must abandon and ignore.
Who knows how many people in this world remain?
I only see refugees fleeing like pouring rain.
Going, going, like an unmoored boat set free.
Drifting with waves and water, flowing endlessly.
Adrift already a thousand miles away.
Who doesn't carry sorrow for two homelands today?
Dancers in courtyards are tired of wine and meat.
Unaware common folks starve, with no place to sleep.
Don't you see the distant empty walls outside the town?
Generals merely plant flowers and bamboos of renown.
Look at the wretched places outside the city wall.
Patches of thatch flowers like willow leaves, so small.
A swallow carries mud, wanting to build a nest.
But the empty hall has no one, so it flies west.