This year ends thus: northern winds, white snow
shrouding Tung-t'ing Lake and all Hsiao and Hsiang.
Under cold skies, as fishermen tend frozen nets, Mo-yao
tribesmen shot geese. Their mulberry bows go twang.
But Ch'u people like fish, not birds. Let the geese
keep flying south--killing them here is pointless.
Rice was expensive last year. Soldiers starved.
This year, falling prices have ravaged our farmers.
And as officials ride high, stuffed with wine and meat,
the looms in these fleeced straw huts stand empty.
I hear even children are sold now, that it's common
everywhere: love hacked and smothered to pay taxes.
Once, they jailed people for minting coins. But now,
cutting green copper with iron and lead is approved.
Engraved mud would be easier. Good and bad are surely
not the same, but they've long been blended together.
From the walls of ten-thousand kingdoms, painted
horns moan: such sad anthems, will they never stop?
--Du Fu, 768 CE
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