Classic Poem

Poor people fish mostly with snare nets;
Rich people fish mostly with seine nets.
The poor don't manage as well as the rich;
One seine net can bring in tens of feet of fish.
When river flowers line the banks and the river is low,
That is when a foot-long fish is worth an inch of gold.
With banks high and snare nets small, not enough gets heaved in,
And the stifled sobs of fishermen's songs sadden the heart.
Along the riverbank, family after family sells its catch;
Large boats, small boats, too numerous to count.
Large boats bearing good fish bring in lots of cash;
Small boats linger on, through the day and night.
A Ch'ang-sha wanderer, I think of my native land—
How I'd like to be there, sitting and watching along the stream:
I'd buy some fish, purchase wine, and, facing the bright moon,
Bring myself to raise a cup, though hardly a drinker myself.
Living here west of Lake Bridge,
Court messengers bring fish long as large chopsticks.
But can I, by myself, eat food most residents have never tasted?
From my railing, I have them tossed back in.
There are things in life that interest me, but not fish;
Enough now of unrolling this scroll to look at the scene.
With neither home nor land to call my own, one need hardly ask—
My only wish: with the common people of the Four Seas to share fat, fresh fish.