On the tenth of September, the year Wu-wu,
A horde of fierce bandits suddenly arose.
From Pi-pao and Red River, they came in force,
Gathering the reckless folk of Tong and Stone.
They slaughtered oxen to feast the savage crew,
And slew men to flatter the demonic spirits.
Unhindered, they swept across the land,
Setting the four borders in a boiling turmoil.
Country huts rushed to seek inspection,
Market towns vied to flee to the city.
Cries and wails shook the dusk and night,
A gloomy air cast the world in darkness.
Carrying half-filled baskets and boxes,
Shouldering pots and jars, they bore their loads.
Chickens and pigs, heads crowded together,
Held their breath in fear, swallowing their cries.
All under heaven are of one flesh,
Why then do spears of conflict arise?
Holding the perilous passes, evil gathers,
Blood-stained fangs, the remnant breed is fierce.
Over hills and plains, they spread their dens,
Accustomed to battle, they hold life cheap.
Tossing heads they treat as sport,
Who dares to challenge their raised banners?
The elders speak of days gone by,
When grass thieves ran wild and unchecked.
The regional general devised a clever plan,
And with one sweep, pacified the mountain caves.
The old bear's pain had just been settled,
When the fierce tiger's plot began anew.
If not swiftly hunted and captured,
In the end, mulberry and field could not be saved.
Government troops camped at Great He,
Alarm reports sped like shooting stars.
Scout flags pressed close to the army ranks,
Upon the walls, righteous volunteers were arrayed.
Water chestnuts hid the narrow passes,
Pine torches lit the watches through the dawn.
Before the hills, orders were stern,
In the command tent, strategies were precise.
A single horse well-versed in coming and going,
Old and young relied on it for peace.
Fish in the stream dove deep and hid,
Wings in the forest scattered, startled.
Considering my long exile,
Meeting this adds to my loneliness.
At night, I cannot bear to close my eyes,
At dawn, what can I plan for my meal?
Spotless, I plot a fire attack,
Sitting to let the evil miasma clear.
Who says the writing brush is blunt,
It falls not short of the banner raised in war.