We present this work in honor of the 405th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

As the sun is about to set,
An old woman is wailing in the ruins of a village.
Her disheveled hair looks as if blighted by frost,
And her eyes are shadowed as if by dusk.
Her husband is in a cold jail cell,
Because he cannot pay off the money he owes,
And her son has gone off with the royal army.
Her house has been burned down to the base of the pillars;
Hiding out in the woods she has lost even her hemp petticoat.
She has no work, she has no wish even to go on living,
Why is the petty clerk of the district calling for her at the gate?

Translation by Peter H. Lee

 

Fluttering, the orioles
male and female together, so.
Reminded of my loneliness;
with whom will I ever go?

 

Though I die and die again a hundred times,
That my bones turn to dust, whether my soul remains or not,
Ever loyal to my Lord, how can this red heart ever fade away?

 

Atop the sandy banks, with my wine deplete, I wish that the sunshine inclines.
Washing my feet in the clear stream, I gaze at birds flying.
This meaning by itself is beautiful — Who shall receive it?
As a student of Confucius, I too dance upon the rain altar and return home.