My Lord, Where Do You Come From?

North of Xinfeng City, northern banners flutter. A young man rides out, clad in fine sable. At dawn he leaves Yanmen's Golden Terrace; at dusk he rests in Dragon City, a cool blade beneath his head. The commander's urgent dispatch flies across the desert sea; spring breezes at Yumen brush the spears of the border guards. On a snowy night, a thousand riders pursue Hunxie; through a hundred battles at Luntai, they slay the barbarian chieftains. The watchman's clapper rings at midnight, disturbing dreams of home; a white-haired soldier recalls the peach-blossom days of his youth. By the Wuding River, he hears the willow song; in a daze, a letter carried by wild geese passes over Baqiao Bridge. He does not regret joining the army all those years ago, only laments that another Huo Qubing is nowhere to be found. You see only great horses and long blades, dark light flashing as the Xiongnu chieftain is captured, kings and ministers painting the land with imperial ambition. But you do not see the bridges and flowing streams, the countless young brides waiting for their husbands to return, the white walls by Qinghai Lake, or the mountain spirits singing of gathering ferns.