The martial world has seen its share of splendor, its flashes of blades and swords, and its battles to the death. In the bloody wars of the northern deserts, amid clashing arms and charging horses, how many years have passed, and whose head has fallen beneath a sword?
The tears of longing never run dry; the pain of separation can never be told.
The young men of yesterday are bones today.
Only a few lonely graves remain. Who is left to confide in?
Three hundred miles of flames fill the sky, but no beacon smoke rises to warn of a besieged city.
Fortune and disaster are hard to foresee; who can know life from death?
Only by swinging a blade can one cut away the pain of parting.
How tragic! How sorrowful!
The splendor of years gone by has become nothing but scorched earth.
The spring grass grows green year after year, but how many more bones will be buried here today?
Some wife sits alone by the bed, her red bridal finery still on, waiting for someone who will never return.
She pines day and night, her heart heavy with grief. Her tears have run dry, leaving only streaks of blood.
A final farewell in this world is nothing more than being separated by life and death, never to meet again in this lifetime.
Reunited in a dream, they weep two streams of clear tears, their hearts breaking with grief.
The most miserable people in the world are those bound by love. Longing has no cure: who can understand its sorrow?
With no one to confide in, the lovesick can only tell their troubles to the mountain spirits.
May all lovers in the world find their way to one another.
May all the world's injustices fade away like clouds and mist.
