Atavistic thoughts for a hedonistic age

On the border

Though a bugle breaks the crystal air of autumn,
Soldiers, in the look-out, watch at ease today
The spring wind blowing across green graves
And the pale sun setting beyond Liangzhou.
For now, on grey plains done with war,
The border is open to travel again;
And Tartars can no more choose than rivers:
They are running, all of them, toward the south.

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One response

  1. Roxshan of Yan

    You are oblivious to the profound melancholy of the sounds of the barbarian flute
    Played by a purple-whiskered green-eyed barbarian.

    The north wind blows and snaps the Tianshan mountain grasses.
    In the Himalayas, the moon is poised to slant downwards,
    As to it the barbarians lift up their pipes.

    In the frontier towns you will have sad dreams every night —
    Who wants to hear the barbarian pipe played to the moon?

    The Han were never meant to be an imperial nation or a martial race, but they always want to learn the hard way, don’t they?

    October 7, 2011 at 2:33 am

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