Being a Prisoner of Chu in Spite of Difficulties

In the winter of the third year of Jianyan's reign, Yu fled south from Bianjing in a hurry. At that time, the golden cavalry broke through the city, the beacon fire was raging in the sky, and the palace palace collapsed like a rotten tree. I carried the remaining scrolls and stumbled out of Xuande Gate, looking back at my old capital. The sun was covered by smoke and dust, and the bells and drums were silent. I could only hear the cries of women and children, which crackled the cold air. When I first crossed the Yellow River, the ice and ice had not yet closed, and the boatmen were afraid to cross. After I took off my robe, I found a reed across the river. The water is as turbid as tears, reflecting the frost on my temples, and it feels like a world away. The north wind cuts across the face, still carrying the neighing of wild horses; looking back at my hometown, it has disappeared in the dusk. My heart is like a hanging flag, and I don't know where it is. Crossing the Huaihe River to the south, the vegetation becomes green, the streams meander, and the spring scenery of Jiangnan begins to appear. However, this scene is not the joy of traveling in the past, but the comfort of an accidental encounter in the midst of chaos. Every time I pass by the market, I hear the soft and waxy Wu dialect, which makes me feel harsh. This is not because I hate the sound, but because the local accent is cut off and I feel helpless. Arrive at Lin'an and temporarily stay on the West Lake side. The lake is glistening, the boats are playing and singing, and the ladies are playing and swimming as usual, seeming to have forgotten the Central Plains. I was leaning against the isolated mountain alone, watching the lingering snow reflecting the plum blossoms. I suddenly recalled that when I was young, I climbed up the pagoda of Xiangguo Temple and looked down at the Bianhe River, where the sails were like weaving shadows. Today, my whole body is wandering, my half-life manuscripts of poems have been ruined, and I only have a lump in my chest, which has been transformed into a few short and long sentences, and I whisper to the moon every night. The children next door laughed and chased each other, unaware that the wheat seedlings in the north had been trampled into mud by horses. I closed the window and couldn't bear to watch, so I took a glass of wine and drank alone. When the wine was cold and the lights were dim, I suddenly heard the sound of a flute coming from the broken bridge. The sound was mournful, as if complaining about the pain of my family and country. Yu throws the cup and sighs: "Although I am in the south of the Yangtze River, my soul is still in Bianluo!" Although the southern country is warm, it is difficult to warm old dreams; although the mountains and rivers are beautiful, it cannot heal the heartache. I only send my blood and tears into my words and chapters, so that those who will know me in the future can recognize the glimmer of my literary heart in this troubled world.