نشيد النهر الحزين

نشيد النهر الحزين

**Lament by the River**

Du Fu

The old wild man of Shaoling weeps with stifled sobs,

In spring I steal along the winding Qujiang.

By the river, palace halls lock a thousand gates—

For whom do the slender willows and new rushes grow green?

I recall when rainbow banners descended to the South Garden,

And all things within the garden burst with color.

She was the foremost woman in Zhaoyang Palace,

Riding in the same carriage, attending at the lord's side.

Before the carriage, talented archers bore their bows and arrows;

White horses bit and gnawed at golden bridles.

They turned their bodies, faced the sky, and shot upward into the clouds—

One arrow struck true, bringing down a pair of flying wings.

Where are those bright eyes and gleaming teeth now?

Her blood-stained wandering soul cannot return.

The clear Wei flows east, the Sword Pass stands deep—

Those who went and those who stayed have no word of each other.

Human life holds feeling, and tears soak the breast—

Do river waters and river flowers know no end?

At dusk, barbarian riders fill the city with dust;

I meant to go south of the city, but forgot—I gazed toward the north.