In haste, I turned to the north and climbed the tower to look,
With a carved bow and Mongolian horses, like wolves with fangs.
Yanran boasts boldly, carving words in stone.
The enemy's camp stretches for a hundred miles, the bandits' influence reaches to the ends of the earth.
The most heartless sight is the willow trees in Taicheng,
The long embankment still shrouded in mist and rosy clouds.
The song and dance pavilion echoes with the elegance of old times.
On the Qinhuai River, the women still sing of backyard flowers.
