Classic Poem

Old charcoal-seller,
cutting wood, making charcoal in the southern hills,
face soot-colored, covered with dust and grime,
sidelocks grizzled, all ten fingers black,
peddling charcoal to get money — and what does it go for?
Clothes for the body, food for the mouth.
But — pitiful! — his body clad in one thin robe,
he worries how much his coal will bring, praying for cold weather.
Last night snow outside the city heaped up a foot deep;
at dawn he sets off in his cart, wheels crunching over frozen ruts.
Ox exhausted, driver hungry, sun already high,
they rest in the mud by the market's south gate.
And who are these two horsemen arrogantly galloping by?
Yellow-robed palace attendant with his white-shirted lackey.
Hand waving a document, mouth barking out an order,
he turns the cart around, shouts at the ox, heads off north.
One whole load of charcoal, a thousand catties and more,
but when palace attendants whisk it away, what good are regrets?
Half a roll of cheap red silk, a swatch of damask
tied to the ox's horn — this their " full payment " for the charcoal!