The old capital of Jinling stands supreme, / With crimson towers stretching far, a dream.
Alas, the weary traveler climbs again, / Beyond the rail, scant beauty to retain.
Pear blossoms fallen, willow catkins flown, / Spring's very essence withers, overthrown.
I ask the hills: where are the heroes bold / Of kingdoms three, and dynasties of old?
Wheat fields and sunflower mounds, a desolate scene,
Deer and swine gnaw on withered cress, unclean.
The lonely town is battered by the waves; / In slanting sunlight's grasp, what silence saves.
From the tower, mournful horns and pipes arise, / Before the wine is poured, the heart-drunken sighs.
As night grows deep, the moon floods Qinhuai's stream, / Mist veils the chill water, a frozen dream.
Desolate, drear, and cold, a lifeless air,
The ferry market's lanterns flicker there.
I sigh that songstresses know not decay,
Across the river, 'Courtyard Flowers' play, / Their lingering notes a weary, endless lay.
A heartbreak through the ages, tears wash clean
The face of time, a sorrow ever keen.
At Wuyi Lane's mouth, the path with wild grass sown, / I trace the Wang and Xie estates, once known.
Linchun and Jieqi, palaces of pride—
Alas, the rouge turned dust, where beauties died; / In bleak wind through white poplars, they abide.
Thus thinking of the past: iron chains, immense,
Were sunk into the river's depths, in vain defense.
Waving a feather fan to ward off western dust, / One might retire in private, free from thrust.
But lofty talk—what did it ever gain?
I look back at Xinting, with its view:
The landscape now is just the same, anew.
Like captives of Chu, weeping—when will it cease?
I sigh: the affairs of men, both now and then, are but a childish farce, a fleeting lease.
The east wind returns with every year, to blow / Upon Zhongshan's slopes, layer on layer of emerald glow.