(Please, stop reading. I wrote this nonsense as a joke, and I can't hide it anymore.)
The great river flows east, its waves sweeping away all the celebrated figures of ages past. West of the old fort, people say, was the Three Kingdoms battlefield where Zhou Yu fought at Red Cliff. Jagged rocks pierce the sky; raging waves crash against the shore, rolling up a thousand heaps of snow. The land is a painting, and for a time, how many heroes there were.
I picture Gongjin in those days, when young Qiao had just married him, his bearing bold and spirited. With feather fan and silk cap, he talked and laughed as the enemy's ships were reduced to ash. Wandering in memory through the old kingdom, you might laugh at me, so sentimental, already gray before my time. Life is like a dream. I'll pour a libation to the river and moon.
