The Book of Songs · Gathering Ferns
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Gathering Ferns
From The Book of Songs · Xiaoya
We gather the ferns, their shoots newly rise. Homeward, we say—yet the year draws to its close.
No settled house, no peaceful family, because of the border war; no leisure to rest.
We gather the ferns, now tender and young. Homeward, we say, while sorrow burns within.
Troubled and hungry, thirsty on the road; the garrison unsettled, no messenger sent home.
We gather the ferns, their stems grown firm. Homeward, we say, as the tenth month comes.
The king's service gives no rest; grief weighs heavily, and still we do not return.
What flower blooms there? The blossom of the wild cherry. What carriage approaches? The noble warrior's chariot.
The war carts are harnessed, four strong horses stand ready. How could we settle, with repeated battles each month?
The four horses move powerfully; the nobleman relies on them, the soldiers shelter beside them.
The teams advance in order, bows and quivers prepared. How could we not stay watchful, with danger pressing close?
When I departed, the willows softly swayed. Now I return, and snow falls thickly.
The road is slow; I am thirsty and hungry. My heart is full of sorrow, and no one knows my grief.