To Pi Ssu Yao (Du Fu)

We have talent People call us the leading poets of our day Too bad, our homes are humble Our recognition trivial We are hungry, wearing rags Rockers treat us with contempt In the prime of our life, our faces are wrinkled Who cares about either of us or our troubles? We are our own audience We appreciate each other's literary merits Our poems will be handed down along with other great dead poets' We can console each other, at least we will have descendants