The feud between Song and Liao is not yet settled; the jianghu stretches far ahead, free and unrestrained. The mad hero of Shu laughs at Confucius, his cold-moon sword soaring to the clouds. The wind sweeps down the setting sun as a lone boat crosses; waters flow into Xiling, vast and high. Young disciples grow old in the jianghu, while the frost and hardship of winter leave no trace of the sturdy pines.
