His family roots are in the mountains,
their traditional profession, in the fields.
Only once a year does he visit the nearest town;
he's lived half his life, and never been to the county seat.
He rides his mare to a vegetarian feast,
or clubs the fatted ox for the village festival.
When it is dry, one rainfall suffices—
talk, laughter, singing of songs!
At the most, he gathers a hundred pecks of wheat,
but he scoffs at a man with ten thousand households.
When the grain has been stored in the granary,
in a loud voice he reckons each measure.
He has never even seen an almanac,
so how does he know his springs and autumns?
When the flowers open, it's time for the spring planting;
when the flowers fall, it's time for the autumn harvest.
Before each cycle ends, the moon is like a plate;
after it begins, the moon is like a hook.
There is no other plan hatching in his mind;
beyond his personal comfort, he wishes nothing more.
Now I have been an official,
and I have seen much evil plotting.
If I could end my days among the fields,
this old man would be my companion.