This seventeenth song saddens me a lot,
How perilous the high hills in my way, I wot,
When nobbled, I missed my homeland so much,
When returned, my yen for sons hath ceased not.
Oh with withered grass and trees the wildlands are fraught,
On the grounds strewed bones with sword’s cut and arrow’s shot.
The frosty wind still howls in summer n’ spring,
Men and steeds down in travel th’ hunger brought.
Ne’er could I wit of seeing Chang’an ‘gain,
Upon th' handrails my sigh sheds tears like rain.