Sleet and rain, as if the pot were boiling.
 Winds whack like the crack of an axe.
   An old man, an old man,
   At sunset, crept into my hut.
 He sighed. He sighed as if to himself,
 "These rulers, so cruel. Why, tell me
 Why they must steal till we starve,
 Then slice the skin from our bones?

 For a song from some beauty,
 They'll go back on sworn words;
 For a song from some tart,
 They'll tear down our huts;
 For a sweet song or two,
 They'll slaughter ten thousand like me,
   Like you. Weep as you will,
   Let your hair turn white,
   Let your whole clan go hungry...
  No good wind will blow,
  No gentle breeze
   Begin again.

 Lord Locust Plague and Baron Bandit Bug,
  One east, one west, one north, one south.
  We're surrounded.

NOTE: This the J.P. Seaton translation found in The Poetry of Zen (2004); Shambhala Publications: Boston, MA, pp. 67-68. For the author’s name, Seaton uses “Kuan Hsiu,” the Wade-Giles romanization of the name.