Last year I asked about the road to Jingmen's gate,
Where roosters crowed, dogs barked, and farmers plowed the soil.
Now whipping my horse back, my heart is desolate,
The former wells and towns are now in ruins and toil.
Clouds dim, rain sparse, grass mounds in jade hue lie,
Across the wilds, few traces of men pass by.
Deep in the hills, folk cling together in the dew,
Kin scattered, homes destroyed—what more can they go through?
An old farmer, strength spent, leans on woods to rest,
Then lifts his head and turns to me his deep distress.
'Sir, sit and hear my tale,' he pleads with tearful eyes,
Before words come, his sleeves are wet with heavy sighs.
'Old as I am, what know I of war's cruel strife?
Yet suddenly I saw wild northern hordes swarm life.
Through cliffs and crags they snaked in lines like fish in school,
On flying steeds they charged and raced, defying rule.
Our troops were not without strong arms and skill in fight,
But fled before the drum, abandoning armor bright.
In peace, officials hoard the grain, no care they show;
In war, they claim rewards for deeds they do not know.
Advance, they fear the arrows; retreat, they burn and loot.
If foes are hard to bear, can you bear such a brute?
Returning, none has time to judge the guilty ones,
Officials with gold still call them under suns.
Old as I am, I know not military art,
But hearing of defeat, deep sighs break from my heart.'
I listen, brows knit tight in sorrow and dismay,
Alone, with grief I descend the western hill's way.
Golden lotuses seem to hate the tainted air,
The spring not cleansed of blood and filth lying there.
Mid-autumn's moon half broken in the nightly sky,
Shines on my lonely rage as round the walls I ply.
The Emperor tastes gall, on mat's edge sits he still;
Shall I, a humble man, weep like a captive will?
With autumn wind, one sword points to Loulan's hill.