A Jiangnan youth, eighteen or nineteen, takes a boat to cross Qingxi's mouth.
By Qingxi's mouth, an old man, hair and brows snow-white, already decrepit.
He says his family served Liang and Chen for generations, thirty in crimson and purple robes.
Two dynasties saw generals and ministers, five generations rode red-wheeled carriages with layered drums.
Fathers and brothers for three generations married princesses, children for four became imperial consorts.
South Mountain's granted fields touched the royal park, North Palace's mansions linked to the Purple Palace.
He thought glory would never cease, unaware mountains crumble and seas run dry.
Weapons and chaos entered Jiankang city, flames burned the Weiyang Palace towers.
Scholars and gentry fell to blades, fine generals and famed ministers all perished.
Mountains and rivers changed, courts and markets lost; crossroads filled with white bones.
The old man was still young then, escaped and fled to the seaside.
After war ceased a year, he dared not emerge; leaving home three years, only then returned.
Weeds had overgrown his five-city mansion, plants knew not his Qingxi fields.
Though he returned to native soil, lonely, poor, and long in hardship.
Gathering firewood often in Liyang Mountain, reaping rice often past Xinlin Bank.
The youth wants to know the old man's age; who knew he's one hundred five this year?
You are young and strong, I am already frail; you did not see me when I was young.
In life, nobility and lowliness each have their time; do not scorn the weak and old.
Moved by your asking, I tell you; finished speaking, I cannot help but feel sorrow.