Moonlight streams like silk, its glow flowing like water. The lonely courtyard lies shrouded in deep stillness.
In white robes, I raise my cup and lean against the moon. My drunken eyes brim with longing, my thoughts locked on the silver hook.
A fading dream atop the tower, an old resentment at the edge of the world.
The cuckoo knows no end to grief and resentment. It sheds no clear tears, but cries blood instead.
The Yi River roars as the warrior departs. The piercing verses about the assassination of Qin endure through the ages.
One sword strikes fear into kings and lords.
The realm is divided in three, conflict rages, and the throne changes hands. The Qiang flute plays a long, distant tune.
A handful of yellow earth, awaiting judgment from generations to come.
