| 英譯： |
Since the rebellion of the Tianbao period,
In wormwoods and pigweeds the farms are buried.
There were a hundred families in our town,
East or west they've fled ere they could settle down.
There is no news from those who are alive,
And dust and mud are those who lost their lives.
From the rout of Ye City I come back
To find in my birth place the dear old track.
The empty lanes meet my eyes all the way;
The sun seems to be haggard, the air is grey.
Me the foxes and racoon-dogs do defy,
With their hair standing up, and furiously cry.
What are there in my neighbours' houses all round?
Only one or two widows can be found.
Clinging to their old perch, the retired birds fly;
Shall I leave my poor nest and further ply?
In spring I shoulder a hoe to the farm alone,
And water vegetable plots in gloom.
But when the official knows I'm back a farmer,
He tells me to be trained as a drummer!
To serve within the County it's all very well,
Yet at home I've no one to bid farewell.
All by myself, to a near camp I make way,
I would be the more at sea if far away.
Near or far, it makes no difference to me;
While all's gone in town there's but a blank to see.
I'm torn with grief; my mother died of disease
Five years ago; the gutter was her release.
How worthless I was born and live above ground;
My mother and I suffer without bound!
A homeless man to part with his native place,
What a shame, being one of the human race!
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