Autumn at the Old Fortress

Fierce sands roll with snow from the sky; bitter cold splits stone as Black Mountain crumbles.

The Hu riders race, sweeping away the clouds; their mournful reed pipes play beneath the moon.

The Han general calls his troops to break the Hu, marching boldly down the deadly Jian Ning Road.

They clash with gleaming blades, fresh blood flowing; commanders fall as arrows whistle through the ranks.

Thinking of those left behind, I burn the golden quiver in vain; the warriors have already filled the hollow of Wolf Mountain.

How could I bear to return defeated and fail my sovereign? Let us linger in drunkenness upon the Golden Terrace.

One deliberate death will strike terror into the Hu; a man has blood in his veins, but no tears to shed!