The Han Will Not Be Slaves
The idle clouds and ripples in the pool drift through endless days; how many autumns have passed as all things have changed and the stars shifted? Where are the disciples in the pavilion now, while beyond the railing the great river flows on alone?
Across ten miles of level lake, frost fills the heavens; every inch of black hair frets over the years of bloom. Facing the moon, the lonely figure casts a shadow to guard it; one envies only the mandarin ducks, never the immortals.
More than once I have sat beneath the moon and played the flute, gazing far toward the silver river and the red walls. It seems the stars are not the same as last night; for whom do the wind and frost stand in the dead of midnight?
When tenderness is drawn to its end, only the remnants of a cocoon remain; when the heart twists in pain, it is like peeling a banana leaf. In the third month, on the fifth day, three and five years have passed, yet sadly the cup of wine has never dulled the ache.
On the seventh loom, the mandarin ducks are woven at last, yet hesitation returns. Only fear that some hand will casually cut them apart, scattering them to two places, leaving a wound of separation; by what means could they follow one another again?
In youth there may be a marvelously gifted pen, yet it does not long for the bamboo grove, only for the noise of the world.
Seeking the antique spirit in ordinary lanes and alleys, one passes the spring nights in thatched huts and rough sheds. A jug of rice wine is enough to invite one’s own drunkenness; the Azure Lotus merely shakes his head and smiles faintly. Minced garlic and green peppers mixed with fermented beans make the dish of a lifetime. Heroes of a thousand years have long since perished, and later men always come to mock them. The dashing deed of bending the bow to shoot the eagle is fine enough, but even if one is not the Lord of Zhou, one may still cherish the beautiful lady Qiao. To play among the mortal dust with poverty and contentment is bliss; the green blade has no mark, for it has not yet left its sheath. Let others look down on me; I remain proud and graceful, free and unrestrained through my generation. Wind follows the dragon, clouds follow the tiger; fame, rank, wealth, and honor are but dust and earth. Looking toward the Central Realm, the people suffer; a thousand miles of fertile land lie waste. Gazing upon all under heaven, it is filled with northern barbarians; the broken way of heaven must be mended by common men. Good men, part from father and mother, for the sake of all living beings, not for a ruler.
When the tides of tribulation are crossed, brothers are still there; with one another’s glance and a smile, old grudges are forgotten. The wind is harsh, the Yi River cold; a brave man once gone never returns! An iron halberd buried in sand, though rustless still, is taken up and polished to recognize an age long past. Had the east wind not favored Lord Zhou, the two Qiao ladies would have been lost forever in the depths of the Bronze Sparrow Terrace.
Dumu
A work in progress: "The Great Banner" and "The Han People Will Not Be Slaves" Please wait a moment. After the content is updated, refresh the page to obtain the latest version.