qiāng cūn (sān)
qún jī zhèng luàn jiào
kè zhì jī dòu zhēng
qū jī shàng shù mù
shǐ wén kòu chái jīng
fù lǎo sì wǔ rén
wèn wǒ jiǔ yuǎn xíng
shǒu zhōng gè yǒu xié
qīng kè zhuó fù qīng
kǔ cí jiǔ wèi báo
shǔ dì wú rén gēng
bīng gé jì wèi xí
ér tóng jìn dōng zhēng
qǐng wèi fù lǎo gē
jiān nán kuì shēn qíng
gē bà yǎng tiān tàn
sì zuò lèi zòng héng
Flock chickens now disorder call
Guests arrive chicken fight
Drive chickens on tree
Begin listen knock wicker tree
Elders four five people
Ask me long far travel
Hand in each have carry
Pour jug cloudy combine clear
Bitter decline wine taste thin
Millet field no person farm
Soldier transform already no rest
Children furthest east campaigning
Ask for elders sing
Difficult ashamed deep feeling
Song finish face heaven sigh
Everyone present cry freely
The flock of chickens starts to call wildly,
As guests arrive, the chickens begin to fight.
I drive the chickens up into the tree,
And now I hear the knock on the wicker gate.
Four or five elders from the village,
Ask how long and far I have been travelling.
Each of them brings something in his hands,
We pour the clear and thick wine in together.
They apologise because it tastes so thin,
There's no-one left to tend the millet fields.
Conscription still continues without end,
The children are campaigning in the east.
I ask if I can sing a song for the elders,
The times so hard, I'm ashamed by these deep feelings.
I finish the song, look to heaven and sigh,
Everyone around is freely weeping.