Ode to the Buried Snow

Peaks gather like ranks of soldiers; waves roar with fury. Between mountains and river lies the road through Tong Pass. Gazing west toward the old capital, I hesitate, heart heavy with sorrow. The places I pass, steeped in the history of Qin and Han, pain me: ten thousand palace halls have all become dust. When dynasties rise, the people suffer; when they fall, the people suffer.