Classic Poem

Upstream, against the wind, they pull hundreds of feet of rope:
these official barges seem to be climbing the sky!
Bamboo-whipped behind, yelled at in front—the overseers
are so cruel!—
they strain at the ropes; who would dare to loosen his grip?
People like to hear the pullers sing their boat-pullers' songs.
Little do they know that these are mostly sounds of lamentation.
When will this muddy flow turn to yellow dust?
Then the pullers will be free of the sorrow of charging waves!