The west wind has come again to the “tower of makeup.”
Withered grasses reach the horizon, the sunset brings sadness.
Heaps of tiles and rubble—woodcutters sing in the evening.
Layers of chilly clouds—swallows dart through the autumn sky.
The glory lasted a moment; people remember it with nostalgia.
The lamentation has gone on for a thousand years;
the waters have stopped flowing!
I wonder—here, beside the overgrown mounds of the graves—
how many farmers' plows have struck hairpins of jade?