The Han has not taken Yan Zhi Mountain, campaigning year after year in northern sands.
Beneath the frontier, sweat-blood steeds charge long distances, above the clouds, Yumen Pass stays shut.
From Yin Mountains to vast desert, thousands of miles, today the Sang River's flow is frozen.
Tartar cavalry comes by Jiluo River, beacon smoke rises in Yuyang garrison.
Emergency dispatches watch each other over long roads, the Son of Heaven grips his sword, thinking of the north.
Imperial guards train and polish golden armor, generals review tactics and leave the Jade Hall.
In distant, alien lands of Youling, winds and smoke change, but watchtowers stand in lines, ancient and present.
Night hears wild geese cross the river south, dawn sees banners reach the northern sea.
Frontier sand flies with a hiss, stretching far to desolate wastes.
On the dark desert, clouds level as formations first meet, the western moon rises, arrows whistle.
South of the town, a hundred battles bring much bitterness, by the road lie the dead on yellow sand.
War robes not removed despite frost and snow, sweating steeds, unevenly gaited, long clad in iron.
No letters sent from the Poplar Leaf Tower, only blood flows vainly on the Lotus Sword.
While the Huns remain, we speak not of home, driving onward, onward, the border stretches far.
Homesick hearts see the moon beyond the sea, parting thoughts dream of falling flowers at sky's edge.
Looking back from the horizon, oh, how vast, fragrant trees, no one crosses Longtou Pass.
Spring clouds do not change Yang Pass's snow, mulberry leaves first know the autumn of Tartar lands.
Tian Chou would not sell his Lulong strategy, Dou Xian aspired to carve the Yanran Stone.
Command troops to pacify the northern frontier, today by the banks of the Jiaohe River.
Wishing the frontier knew no shield and axe, we will wait until the Khan is bound by the neck.