To My Son
All turns to dust in my dying eyes,
only hatred is that a unified land is not seen.
When the day of the emperor's troops sweeping the North comes,
you must not forget to tell me at my tombstone.
Rainstorm on Nov. 4
I slept stiff and alone in a lonely village without feeling self-pity.
I am still thinking of fighting for my country.
Deep into the night I lie down and hear the wind blowing the rain.
The armored horses and the ice river came into my dream.
Pink soft hands, yellow rippling wine,
The town is filled with Spring, willows by palace walls.
The east wind is biting, happiness is thin,
heart full of sorrow, so many years apart.
Wrong, Wrong, Wrong!
Spring is as of old; the person is empty and thin.
Traces of tears show through the sheer silk.
Peach blossoms falling, glimmering pond freezing,
The huge oath remains, the brocade book is hard to hold.
Don't, Don't, Don't!
Near the broken bridge outside the fortress,
I go, lonely and disoriented.
It is dusk and I am alone and anxious,
especially when the wind and rain start to blow.
I do not mean to fight for Springtime,
I would rather be alone and envied by the crowd.
I will fall down, become earth, be crushed to dust.
My glory will be same as before.