Watching the Wheat Harvest

Farm families have few idle months;

In the fifth month everyone is twice as busy.

A south wind rises in the night;

Yellow wheat covers the ridges.

Women carry baskets of food;

Children bring pitchers of drink.

Together they take provisions to the fields,

Where working men are on the southern slope.

Their feet steam in heat rising from the soil;

Their backs are scorched by the burning sun.

Their strength spent, they scarcely notice the heat,

Only cherishing the long summer day.

Nearby is another, a poor woman,

Holding her child at her side.

In her right hand she gathers fallen ears of grain;

On her left arm hangs a worn basket.

I hear her speak to those around her;

Her words make listeners sad:

“Our family fields are gone to pay the taxes;

I pick these scraps to fill our hungry stomachs.”

What merit have I now?

I have never worked at farming or tending silkworms.

My official salary is three hundred dan;

At year’s end I still have grain to spare.

Thinking of this, I feel ashamed in private;

All day I cannot forget it.