Dreams of the Peach Hermitage

Slaves thirst for blood, iron spears fly. Awaken from a great dream, and find the years' ravages brushed aside. Clouds turn, flowers fall, yet the upright-hearted young man is cherished. His brush once rode red waves; pale grass, frosted temples. He crossed a hundred miles of wilderness to defend the nation and rid it of bandits. Old friends have gone, the old tower is out of sight. The old dynasty has faded, new branches bloom again.