The mighty Yangtze flows east, its waves sweeping away heroes. Right and wrong, success and failure vanish in a blink. The green hills remain as ever, while sunsets have come and gone countless times.
That day, a hero's blood flew, and a branch rested upon his brow. Inside and beyond the capital, corpses and starving bodies littered the land. I sigh as the mortal world rolls on like a river; heroes of every age fight until they die and become bones. How laughable that even the greatest achievements end with one's body buried in yellow earth! You lie beneath the springs, your bones sealed in mud; I remain among the living, my hair whitened by frost.
