The work of the year draws to an end.
If you have no bronze vessels for sacrifice
You can always borrow them. Others have plenty.
Mountains and rivers have given up their produce,
In varying quantities to the poor and the rich.
Some offer plates of fat carp.
Some offer baskets with pairs of rabbits.
The rich prepare banquets.
Silk and bright brocade decorate their halls.
The poor have hardly anything to offer.
Instead, they try to hide
The family mortar from the tax assessor.
I am a stranger in this neighborhood,
Where gay processions fill the streets and alleys.
I too sing the old folksongs,
But I sing to myself, no one sings with me.
SU TUNG P’O