[Written on the Occasion of a Visit to Ch'in in the Autumn of 759]
(One of Three)
Dismounting on an old battleground,
Everywhere I see only vast emptiness.
On the mournful wind drifting clouds flee,
Yellowed leaves drop before me.
Scavenger ants crawl through rotted bones
Also entwined in the creeper grass.
Because old men passed by sighing,
Today's men still expand their bounds.
Chinese and barbarian both win and lose,
Our borders are not often whole.
How can we find a General Chien Po
So our troops all can sleep in peace?
(Two of Three)
On a crisp autumn day I climb a cold mountain
To look south on the Mayi District
Where surrendered troops attacked the barbarians of the east
Hale and hearty, now none survive.
Barbarian yurts in disordered solitude
Above them sailing clouds of grief.
The old and infirm weep along the road
Yearning to hear the end of arms and men.
In Yeh this happens again and againAnd the dead pile up like hills.
Many generals already are reed and mud,
Who rushed to scheme with whom?
A year of plenty, who says it's late?
Sweetness of the rains lies not in speed.
For tilling fields the fall rains suffice,
Grain heads even now glisten along the roads.
In the ninth moon spring's sprouts'
Faces grow old in a day.
I urge retired scholars
Not to lament that they still rot.
The time has come to show your talents--
There is no too soon or too late.
But startle the deer-skin hermit
And forget life sequestered in fragrant glades.
Tu Fu (712-770)
杜甫 (公元 712-770)