Lament of the Farm Wife of Wu_

来自
    rice this year ripens so late!
    we watch, but when will frost winds come?
    they come - with rain in bucketfuls;
    the harrow sprouts mod, the sickle rusts.
    my tears are all cried out, but rain never ends;
    it hurts to see yellow stalks flattened in mud.
    we camped in a grass shelter a month by the fields;
    then it cleared and we reaped the grain, followed the wagon home,
    sweaty, shoulders sore, carting it to town -
    the price it fetched, you'd think we came with chaff.
    we sold the ox to pay taxes, broke up the roof for kindling;
    we'll get by for the time, but what of next year's hunger?
    officials demand cash now - they won't take grain;
    the long northwest border tempts invaders.
    wise men fill the court - why do things get worse?
    i'd be better off bride to the river lord*
    *ancient custom of sacrificing a young girl each year as a "bride" to the river lord, the god of the yellow river.

来自