Beneath the palace gates, dark clouds shroud the black banners;
At Weiyang's grand feast, they bid the departing general farewell.
The Son of Heaven passes the cup, urged by his officials;
The Chanyu now is truly Heaven's favored son.
The Shanglin Park's gates are locked, though fragrant blooms abound;
Wang Qiang lies trapped in sleep amidst the lush flowers.
A palace attendant startles, announcing the summons;
To make peace with the nomads, she must sacrifice her painted brows.
Pacing, gazing at the scene, she grieves the spring with tears;
Her beauty misled her life, a truth she never knew.
A thousand deaths for the painter would not suffice as atonement;
Only then does the portrait prove a lord is hard to deceive.
No wrong is greater than this eternal parting;
No vow more broken, leaving only self-doubt.
The felt-covered carriage inevitably descends from the palace halls;
She remembers the first time she entered, years ago.
Her brows like distant mountains, lightly traced, twin moth-antennae hang;
Hoping to bring glory to her family's lofty gates.
Aunts and sisters led her, parents saw her off;
They did not let her board the vermilion steps with tears.
The emperor's yellow robe is dampened with his tears;
Though this body goes, the events are all awry.
The desert sands stretch ten thousand miles, few flowers or trees;
Among the Hu, they vie to see the true Yanzhi.
Languages不通, hearts are filled with sorrow;
A pipa is crafted to strum mournful thoughts.
The palace gates are ten thousand li away, hard to reach;
The sandalwood plectrum snaps the shang string's silk.
In bitter cold, the remote frontier, human traces rare;
At times, a frosty goose flies at the sky's edge.
Who can convey to the Han ministers and chancellors:
Do not forget, Xishi, the true tortoise of primal virtue.