A fruit, small as the garden peach,
May still be used for food.
A State, though poor as ours, might thrive,
If but its rule were good.
Our rule is bad, our State is sad,
With mournful heart I grieve.
All can from instrument and voice
My mood of mind perceive.
Who know me not, with scornful thought,
Deem me a scholar proud.
"Those men are right," they fiercely say,
"What mean your words so loud?"
Deep in my heart my sorrows lie,
And none the cause may know.
How should they know who never try
To learn whence comes our woe?
The garden jujube, although small,
May still be used for food.
A State, though poor as ours, might thrive,
If but its rule were good.
Our rule is bad, our State is sad,
With mournful heart I grieve.
Methinks I'll wander through the land,
My misery to relieve.
Who know me not, with scornful thought,
Deem that wild views I hold.
"Those men are right," they fiercely say,
"What mean your words so bold?"
Deep in my heart my sorrows lie,
And none the cause may know.
How can they know, who never try
To learn whence comes our woe?
