Su Shi. (№ 371989)

As bitter boiled rice this year
before the frost he clearly is not Mature.
Heaven and all the rains are sick -
a forgotten hammer and the rust will eat.
The rain poured all but dried up eyes
look for sprouts in the mud tears in the way.
I have a month right in the night.
Frost. Now taking home an ox.
The entire crop, puffing, carrying to sell
But the money was given, as the dust from the road.
Sell the ox to pay taxes,
And the thought about hunger in vain I'll drive
The tax take coin gold
To recruit soldiers on the long border.
The official fed, and we do not subsist -
To the river God I'll wife...