Kuan Siu (China, 832-912), translated by J. P. Seaton, from The Poetry of Zen, Shambhala 2007

Bad Government

Sleet and rain, as if the pot were boiling.
Winds whack like the crack of an axe,
An old man, an old old man,
at sunset, crept into my hut.
He sighed. He sighed as if to himself,
"These rulers, so cruel. Why, tell me
why must they 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."