In the past, in the days of the Western Capital,
The Hu came, filling the vermilion palaces.
At midnight, the nine temples burned,
The Milky Way turned red because of it.
Tiles torn loose flew for ten miles,
Silk curtains scattered, layers now empty.
Heart-sick, grieving for the wooden spirit tablets,
One by one, ashes in the sorrowful wind.
At dusk, iron cavalry arrayed,
At clear dawn, splendid steeds dispersed.
Traitorous ministers showed their rebellious stance,
Congratulating each other on success.
Then consorts and concubines were slaughtered,
Piled together like heaps of dung.
The emperor's seat was desecrated,
White walls peeled, painted insects faded.
Not knowing where the two sages were,
An old man of a hundred years wept in private.
The imperial carriage, now said to have returned,
Pillars and rafters suddenly rise lofty.
Elders again shed tears,
Temple officers plant parasol trees.
Grandeur not as before,
Yet already the emperor's power is seen as mighty.
Last spring, rituals at suburban temples,
Sacrificial affairs attended by the sacred person.
My humble self, unworthy, among close ministers,
Following in train, accompanying the assembled lords.
Ascending steps, holding jade tablets,
High crowns gleaming, golden bells.
Serving at the sacrifice, ashamed of earlier exposure,
Near the palace walls, close to Zhuolong.
The Son of Heaven, a filial grandson,
Five-colored clouds rise from the ninefold heavens.
Mirror cases replaced powder and paint,
Kingfisher feathers still lush and vague.
First, weary of the Jie Hu,
Later, suffering from the Quan Rong.
Sacrificial beans become rank meat,
Palace screens witness horn bows.
How can we, from the western extremes,
Proclaim orders to empty Shandong?
Drive all to the palace gates,
Scholars and commoners block Guanzhong.
Generals understand rebellion and loyalty,
The common people return to their origins.
One morning, the ruler blames himself,
For ten thousand miles, carts and documents move freely.
Spear points now serve plows and hoes,
Garrison duty follows as commanded.
Superfluous officials each resume their tasks,
Natives return to diligent farming.
Ruler and ministers practice frugality enough,
Court and countryside rejoice together.
The restoration resembles the dynasty's founding,
The successor resembles Taizong.
Sitting upright, accepting remonstrance,
Harmonious winds daily blend and melt.
On red steps, cherry branches,
Half-veiled in silver-wire cages.
For a thousand springs, offerings at the imperial tombs,
Eternally enduring, without end.
The capital no longer sees fire,
The Jing and Wei rivers shed their sorrowful looks.
Returning, I call to the old pines and cypresses,
Growing old, I suffer like drifting tumbleweed.