Thinking of the past, Hanzhong was in peril,
The Jie barbarians came from distant wilds.
Their invasion alarmed the borderlands,
Their foul stench defiled our splendid nation.
Officials were shrouded in barbarian dust,
Imperial temples fell into barbarian hands.
Traitors held the reins of state power,
And lightly cast away our precious land.
The world was turned upside down, head and feet reversed,
Evil miasma blotted out the sun and moon.
To think of it is unbearable to speak,
Speaking of it, tears soak my breast.
Emperor Shou, with his heroic and martial bearing,
Could not, at once, wash this all away.
Our ancestral spirits surely have their power,
Why then do we bear this heavy grief?
Loyal and worthy men surely have the heart,
Why are they so long suppressed and hindered?
Enduring shame, sitting on firewood for years,
Nurturing the people, teaching them, in every detail.
Yesterday, an imperial edict flew down from heaven,
To cleanse in one morning the accumulated filth.
Forgetting myself, moved by indignation, I weep in the southeast,
A vital force arises, sharp, to swallow the northwest.
It seems I hear the marshal has set forth,
Wherever the imperial army goes, no strong foe remains.
Weapons cast down, corpses strewn for forty miles,
Banners captured, six thousand horses seized.
The old survivors of Chang'an are still there,
With pots of wine and baskets of food, offering sincere devotion.
Such is their brave might and righteous spirit,
Like fish in a boiling cauldron, the false peace ends.
Though events may not fully match what I've heard,
Surely heaven and earth are due to open anew.
A pond fish one day rides a whirlwind up,
This principle has always had its passages and blocks.
The world trusts the past but not the present,
Often making state affairs a subject for mockery.
Why do they not think of the nurturing grace,
But sit and watch travelers fight by the roadside?
Alas, since youth I've looked to ancient times,
My will unfulfilled, suffering weak resolve.
Under my thatched eaves, alone I face the slanting Dipper,
A hundred feelings mingle, my heartstrings struck again and again.
A man born into this world is not without purpose,
His seven-foot frame not meant for ants to feed on.
Those who recited thrice in the tent of yore,
Were disciples of Confucius, masters of poetry and rites.
Should I be like modern men, boring through scrolls,
Carving kidneys, sculpting livers, patching together ink?
Weapons of war are of no use for the state,
Such efforts are like boiling sand to make gruel.
I wish to ride alone among the Hu sons,
Pointing straight to Mount Yan to carve my merit.