Drunk, I trim the lamp and gaze at my sword; in dreams, I return to the bugles sounding through the camps.
Eight hundred li away, the meat is shared beneath the banners; fifty strings play a tune from beyond the frontier. Autumn troops muster on the battlefield.
The warhorse flies like Dilu, the bowstring cracks like thunder.
I have accomplished the king's great cause of unifying the realm, and won a name that will live on after death. How pitiful, these white hairs!
