Making the Most of the Ming Empire

Your perseverance is admirable. Even before reading your writing, I admire your intentions. Life is short, and words are even shorter. Let us encourage each other to see things through to the end.

Only human labor is sacred.

The moon is dark, the wild geese fly high, the Xiongnu chieftain flees in the night. I wish to pursue with light cavalry, but the snow covers my bow and sword.

Amidst the vibrant red and green, a new style unfolds. The shadow of a peach blossom fan lingers on drifting clouds. The tales of the Sui and Tang dynasties are truly relatable. A brocade sail floats on the Bian River, amidst the flowers and willows of the two capitals, where dust and wind linger. The sounds of celebration will stir the spring in the Phoenix City.

Go, Ming Dynasty!

The cold mountain has become exceptionally lush and verdant, and the autumn waters flow gently into the distance day by day. I stand leaning on my cane outside the thatched cottage, listening intently to the evening cicadas' song in the breeze.

Always, the sorrow of parting at the mountain pass lingers. The chaotic frontier griefs are endless, the high autumn moon shines on the Great Wall. The elm leaves at the pass are already sparse and yellow, the sun sets on the ancient battlefield amidst clouds and sand. A petition is submitted requesting the army to return and cover the dust.

I dreamt of Yangzhou, still at Nanpu. Silken robes, like a dream, brocade, like dust; where are the fragrant carriages and precious horses now? Emerald smoke shrouds the ten-mile Sui embankment, a vast expanse of drifting catkins. I look up, my soul is broken, my heart is torn; spring's beauty is so fleeting. The news of the jade flowers has vanished; the desolate terraces and ancient gardens are ownerless in spring. I think of the orioles and flowers before the twelve-story tower, shrouded in misty rain.

Ancient smoke of war, rise and fall, heroes and valiant warriors. Amidst the turbulent currents of the sea, fate is intertwined, but the hearts of martyrs remain as firm as iron. On our ancient land, the heartland of China, bathed in the ancient moonlight. In the prime of their lives, they sacrificed themselves for their country, their fighting spirit will live on forever!

The road leads into Pingshan, where ten thousand trees stand clear and green, pine and ivy flourishing and reaching the eaves. Deer run, springs reflecting autumn shadows, geese carry clouds across the evening sky. The flower-lined path once witnessed the passing of the prime minister, the moss-covered stele bearing no inscriptions of Zhaoming. Where has the splendor of the Six Dynasties gone now? It has only earned a ten-year reputation in the imperial tent.