I spur my horse past the ruined city;the ruined city, that wakes the traveler's thoughts:ancient battlements, high and low;old grave mounds, great and small.Where the shadow of a single tumbleweed tremblesand the voice of the great trees clings forever,I sigh over all these common bones --No roll of the immortals bears their names.

Where’s the trail to Cold Mountain?Cold Mountain? There’s no clear way.Ice, in summer, is still frozen.Bright sun shines through thick fog.You won’t get there following me.Your heart and mine are not the same.If your heart was like mine,You’d have made it, and be there!

Children I implore youget out of the burning house nowthree carts wait outsideto save you from a homeless liferelax in the village squarebefore the sky everything's emptyno direction is better or worseeast is just as good as westthose who know the meaning of thisare free to go where they want