Dai Shulun

Swallows feed their young in the nest, bamboo shoots are growing,

Which of the two of us will plant the new crops

Unmarried, no ox, not as good as a plow,

Hacking at the ground with a knife making mud.

My family is poor, my mother is old.

My brother in the army, not married, no sister in law.

Last year was a disaster, sickness killed our cattle,

Our silk clothes we cut up to buy a sharp knife.

A scarf on my head to hide my face,

Compare me with my knife to a cow.

As sisters, we suffer the same,

With eyes only for the ground.

In the rows and ridges thinning the seed,

Digging ditches, praying for rain.

The sun over head shines on the southern ridge as the men return with their pay,

Take pity this morning as the pheasants are frightened.

All about, the flowers have all blossomed,

Together, we’ll cherish the fragrance we remember.

While the autumn moon is pouring full

On a thousand night-levels among towns and villages,

There meet by chance, south of the river,

Dreaming doubters of a dream....

In the trees a wind has startled the birds,

And insects cower from cold in the grass;

But wayfarers at least have wine

And nothing to fear -- till the morning bell.