Noon shivers are unfairly punctual:
Early the malarial symptoms appear,
So I put on another green-colored jacket.
With no desire to comb out yesterday's braids,
I hastily tie a kerchief to tidy my side locks.
Too busy with work to wash my plain skirt:
Along its wrinkled pleats
The torn threads are frayed on both sides.
My white wrists seen close up are rough and calloused,
But these fragrant cheeks are still soft and young.
I deem my whole life wretched but I'll bear it to the bitter end
Even if I turn into powder and ash.
I foresaw this when I married:
Beautiful thoughts and romantic feelings,
All would be suffocated in cooking smoke.
In the eastern field they only complain that the meal is brought late.
The chills return,
But no one asks about my fever.
I return to fetch the cotton quilts being sunned,
And it's almost time to cook the evening meal again.
（Grace S. Fong 譯）