From age fifteen some are sent to guard the north, and even at forty some work the army farms in the west. The frontier posts run with blood enough to fill an ocean, and the war-loving Emperor's dreams of conquest have still not ended. And even where there is a sturdy wife to handle hoe and plough, the poor crops grow raggedly in haphazard fields. Even though you were kind enough to ask, good sir, perhaps I shouldn't express such resentment. The white bones lie there in drifts, uncollected.
New ghosts complain and old ghosts weep, under the lowering sky their voices cry out in the rain.
Now I must go back to my river village alone, and alone live out the rest of my days. To General Cao Ba You, General Cao Ba, descendant of Cao Cao, now live as a peasant, a cold-door commoner. Your ancestor's heroic age carved out kingdoms of old, and its cultural brilliance, its style, still survive in your work. Often summoned to court during the Kaiyuan period, frequently you ascended the dais to receive the Emperor's praise. On the ministers' heads you repainted their hats of office, at the waists of the fierce generals, their great feathered arrows.