Classic Poem

At night I sit, uneasy and unhappy;
I write a poem to present to Yung-erh.
“Yung-erh, where do you come from?
You come from the southeastern frontier.
You tell me you were a Kuang-hsi native;
your prefecture and county you don't recall.
You only know your family name was Li,
and for generations you were shaman-healers.
The household had three head of cattle,
and fields that you could weed and till.
Then one year the Ching-chou barbarians
rebelled and forced the imperial army to come in.
At night, you heard the wild troops arrive:
they had the power of tigers or of wolves.
Your dad was murdered—
his blood and flesh were spattered all around.
Your mom was taken prisoner,
and no one knew if she would survive.
The officials registered handsome young men,
castrated them and sent them off as slaves!
You were only thirteen then,
broad of brow, but gaunt in body.
And you were born with left eye nearly blind,
so luckily you escaped this mutilation.
Then prison boats carried you ‘rice-pickers’
by stages until you reached the capital.
Military officials memorialized your names
so civil authorities could give you your assignments.
Now I am dull and lacking in all skill,
yet I received benevolence
as if I were a duke!
After all, what thing am I
that the Emperor's brush itself
should mark my name!
In the vermilion throneroom
I kowtowed in gratitude,
then still in child's hairdo
you came to be my companion.
We boiled broth to make you food to eat,
stitched cloth so you'd have clothes to wear.
I could not bear to make your tasks too hard,
or punish your faults with the bamboo rod.
When at home, I'd have you at my side;
traveling, I'd have you come along.
And I spoke earnestly to the children,
urging them never to be cruel to you.
I also exhorted the other servants
to support you when you would get sick.
I think of the virtue of the former Emperor:
how could I ever repay it now?
Imperial gifts of living creatures
were always animals,
but this one's better far than chicken or pig!
And the present Emperor has given two more servants
whose origins were among the Ssu-en barbarians.
Ts'en Liang is eleven years old,
and as for Wu, he's two years less than that.
They see you as their elder brother,
so you can take them as younger brothers now.
You stand in rank like a flock of geese
playing for me flute and ocarina.
They're still small, not ready to take blame;
you are older—teach them to behave!
Yung-erh! Come before me:
I have a worthy lesson for you now.
At crack of dawn, you must rise quite early;
when sun's gone down, you must go to bed quite late.
Basket in hand, sweep out all the halls;
draw well-water to irrigate garden beds.
When guests arrive, serve them tea and fruit;
when they have left, put away the chess board and books.
You have a mouth—don't use it to drink wine;
drunkenness is a crooked path to death.
You have two hands—don't use them to steal;
become a thief at the risk of your own hide.
In human life, no matter high or low,
just ask what company he keeps!
To grow up as an official's servant
beats being a barbarian, Chuang or Li!
Yung-erh! Why are you so dumb?
I tell you these things, and you seem unaware.”
He hangs his head, asleep, without a word:
I'm chanting my poem to myself alone.