Classic Poem

I drove my chariot through the Northern Suburbs Gate,
When my horses balked and refused to gallop on.
I got down from my chariot, not knowing what to do,
Looked up and broke a branch from a dead willow-tree.
Turning my head, I heard from a funeral-grove,
The sorrowful sound of someone weeping there.
I called to the mourner, begged him to come out,
And asked him what had brought him to this place
“My mother died and left me all alone,
My stepmother hates me, orphan that I am.
Hungry and cold, I have no clothes or food,
At every move I am beaten with a whip
My bones dissolve, my flesh is cut away,
My body is like the bark of a withered tree
They hide me away within an empty room,
When my father comes home, he does not know where I am
I came to this graveyard to look for our old tomb,
But the living and dead are thrust apart for ever
How can I ever see my mother again?
My tears fall down, my voice is hoarse with sobbing.
They have cast me away and left me in this place,
What have I done to merit such poverty and danger?”
I have set down this story for later generations,
That through this they may understand such things.