In the old lands of Yanyun, the northern wind sweeps over armor. The Son of Heaven grips his weapons and guards the northern gate; beacon fires shine straight up to the palace eaves. Once, the dragon banners marched out through the Purple Frontier. Now bloodied blades gleam over the frozen river.
With the realm in pieces, how could we dare look south? With the state on the brink of collapse, how could we seek mere survival? Zhu Di moved the capital, keeping a sword suspended over the frontier; Chongzhen gave his life for his country, and his sacrifice set the plains ablaze.
The drums fall silent atop the walls, and corpses pile up at the pass. The candles burn out before the palace, and jade lies shattered on the steps. Snow buries broken halberds, yet the piercing notes of barbarian flutes still echo through the long night. Moss creeps over the words on the stele, but the inscription remains: “I, the sovereign, shall personally defend the nation’s walls.”
So when the Son of Heaven guards the gates of the realm, the armies stand shoulder to shoulder, their arrows one and the same. When a ruler dies for his country, what death could he refuse, even if it means ten thousand deaths?
The mountains and rivers become his tomb, the sun and moon his banners. This spirit shall never die; it will guard the lands of China forever!
