English translation of Su Shi's "Cold Food Observance"
Here are three translations for you to muse over.
Miao Guang's translation:

Ever since my arrival in Huangzhou,
Three Cold-Food Festivals* have come and gone;
Despite my intention to cherish each Spring,
Yet the passing Spring allows no such dream.
This year, there is once again bitter rain,
Two months of miserable autumn-like days;
Smelling the scents of crab-apple flowers in bed,
By muddy soil the blushing snow is stained.
Being stolen out in the dark,
Obviously it was midnight's strong men;
What difference is from an ill young man,
Upon recovery, the hairs have already gone grey.
The spring river about to flood my place,
With the drenching rain not ready to cease;
My small hut is like a fishing boat,
Amid the fog and water it is afloat.
In the empty kitchen I cook cold vegetables,
Burning damp reeds beneath a broken stove;
How was I to know it was Cold-Food Festival Day?
From the paper-money ravens collect.
The emperor's gate is nine-layers deep,
While tombs are ten-thousand miles away;
I would cry over having come upon the road's end,
But, like dead ashes, my heart'll never kindle again.

Bor-hua Wang's translation:

Since coming to Huangzhou,
Three Cold-Food Festivals have come and gone.
Each year I wish to linger with spring,
But spring admits no delay for departure.
This year, I again suffer from bitter rain,
Two months of autumn-like dreary weather.
Lying in bed, I smell the crab-apple blossoms;
Mud smudges their rouge and snow.
In darkness, they were carried off;
Truly, there must be a strong man [stealing them away]
in the middle of the night.
How does it differ from a sickly youth,
upon leaving his sickbed, finding his hair already
Spring flood is coming up to my door,
But the rain shows no sign of letting up.
My small hut is like a fishing boat,
Blurred in misty water and clouds.
Prepared in my empty kitchen are only cold vegetables,
The cracked stove has only burnt wet reeds.
How did I know it is the Cold-Food festival?
I see scraps of paper money picked up by crows.
The sovereign’s gates are far above nine levels [of
Heaven];
Tombs [of my ancestors] are ten-thousand miles away.
I would weep [for my misery] at the end of the road,
Only [my heart] is like dead ashes that cannot be
rekindled.74

Patrick Siu's translation:

Ever since I came to Huangzhou, three Hanshi (Cold Food Festivals) have passed by.
Each year I wish the springtime can be prolonged but Spring departs without lingering.
This year again we suffer the rain, two months of dreary, autumn like weather.
Lying in bed, I listen to rains falling heavily on the crabapple blossoms.
The fallen red petals and white petals are splattered in the mud.
Spring is stolen as if by a strong figure in the middle of the night,
It’s no different from a sick young man who rising from his sickbed found his hair has turned white.
The spring river wants to flood the house. The force of the rain is unrelenting.
My small house is like a fishing boat in the midst of fog and water.
In an empty kitchen I boil cold vegetables in a broken stove burning damp reeds.
How could I know that today is the Hanshi Festival, except that I see crows carrying ghost money from graveyards?
The emperor’s gates are nine layers deep; the family tombs ten thousand miles away.
Will I in the manner of Juan Chi (阮籍) weeping that the road is at an end?
Dead ashes, blown, will not rekindle. (Feelings of despair and abandonment.)