Old pine trees, their shaggy manes twirled in a dance by the wind;
row on row of tombs, one wisp of smoke rising from nowhere.
The lords and princes who once lived along Bronze Camel Avenue
have become the dust that settles on the traveler’s face,
The white poplar on top of the mountain has turned into an old woman
who spends each night in the fields, chasing away tigers of stone,
Officials come to this place, face north toward the Mausoleum of Longevity,