Since Wang Jun brought his towering ships down from Yizhou,
The royal ghost has pined in the city of Nanjing.
Ten thousand feet of iron chain were sunk here to the bottom --
And then came the flag of surrender on the Wall of Stone....
Cycles of change have moved into the past,
While still this mountain dignity has commanded the cold river;
And now comes the day of the Chinese world united,
And the old forts fill with ruin and with autumn reeds.
王濬楼船下益州，金陵王气黯然收。
千寻铁锁沉江底，一片降幡出石头。
人世几回伤往事？山形依旧枕寒流。
从今四海为家日，故垒萧萧芦荻秋。
Liu Yuxi's Xi Sai Shan Huai Gu (西塞山怀古) is a seven-character regulated verse (lüshi) written in 824 CE, when the poet was travelling down the Yangtze River from Kuizhou to a new post. The poem opens with a moment from history that still hung in the river mist: Wang Jun lou chuan xia Yi zhou, Jin ling wang qi an ran shou. (王濬楼船下益州，金陵王气黯然收。) Wang Jun's tower ships came down from Yizhou, and the royal spirit of Jinling faded into darkness. In 280 CE, the Jin dynasty fleet had sailed east to crush the kingdom of Wu. The "wang qi" (royal spirit) was the ancient belief that a city's fortune could be seen in the sky. One moment it was there; the next, it was gone.
The next lines show how quickly power falls: Qian xun tie suo chen jiang di, yi pian jiang fan chu Shi tou. (千寻铁锁沉江底，一片降幡出石头。) The Wu kingdom had stretched iron chains across the river to stop the enemy ships. But Wang Jun burned through them, and the great chains sank to the bottom. Then a single white flag of surrender rose above Stone City, the fortress of Nanjing. The picture is sharp and cold: metal against fire, pride against reality. All the clever defences of an empire became scrap iron in one morning.
The poem then turns from history to the rock that watched it all: Ren shi ji hui shang wang shi, shan xing yi jiu zhen han liu. (人世几回伤往事，山形依旧枕寒流。) How many times have men wept over the rise and fall of kingdoms? Yet the shape of West Fort Mountain has not changed. It still rests its head on the cold river, sleeping through every war. The word "yi jiu" (依旧) means "just as before." While human glory lasts only a season, the mountain and the river are eternal. The contrast is gentle but heavy: we cry, and the mountain listens without answering.
The final lines look at what remains today: Jin feng si hai wei jia ri, gu lei xiao xiao lu di qiu. (今逢四海为家日，故垒萧萧芦荻秋。) Now the world is one family again, the empire united under one sky. But the old forts are empty. Only the sound of autumn wind moves through the reed grass. The word "xiao xiao" (萧萧) is the whisper of dry plants in cold air. It is a quiet ending for a place that once shook with war drums. Liu Yu xi does not say whether unity is better than the old kingdoms. He simply shows us the reeds, the wind, and the silence that comes after all the shouting stops.
Classical Chinese poetry thrives on Concision and Ambiguity. Without tense or number, the words create a timeless space where the reader becomes the co-creator of the poem's meaning.
Look for Contrasts: light and shadow, movement and stillness. Don't just translate the words; feel the Yijing (artistic conception) that lingers long after the last character.
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