Classic Poem

Rice this year ripens so late!
We watch, but when will frost winds come?
They come—with rain in bucketfuls;
the harrow sprouts mold, the sickle rusts.
My tears are all cried out, but rain never ends;
it hurts to see yellow stalks flattened in the mud.
We camped in a grass shelter for a month by the fields;
then it cleared and we reaped the grain, followed the wagon home,
sweaty, shoulders sore, carting it to town—
the price it fetched, you'd think we came with chaff.
We sold the ox to pay taxes, broke up the roof for kindling;
we'll get by for the time, but what of next year's hunger?
Officials demand cash now—they won't take grain;
the long northwest border tempts invaders.
Wise men fill the court—why do things get worse?
I'd be better off bride to the River Lord!