The Ruins of Lo-Yang, by Ts'ao Chih

The Ruins of Lo-Yang, by Ts'ao Chih

Postby admin » Mon Jan 02, 2023 11:21 pm

Introduction to "The Han Dynasty: The First Empire in Flames
by Paul Cooper
Fall of Civilizations Podcast
2020



In the early years of the third century, around the year 207 AD, a Chinese poet by the name Ts'ao Chih made a journey back to the place of his birth, a city called Luoyang. At this time, the lands of China were in chaos. The armies of rival warlords were now tearing the country apart, and so his journey can’t have been an easy one. Ts'ao Chih was the son of a powerful warlord in the central plains of China, but he was also a notorious drunk. He had embarrassed his family to such an extent that he was exiled, and he now returned to the only other place he knew; his hometown of Luoyang. Luoyang had once been a prosperous place. For centuries, poets had written about its bustling life and its leafy avenues full of blossom, leading up to grand palaces and temples decorated with thousands of bronze statues. It had been the capital of China in the golden age of the emperors which had lasted for more than 400 years. But Ts'ao had heard that Luoyang had suffered in the recent wars. Still, when he came over the crest of the Beimang Mountains to the north, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw stretching out beneath him. The entire city of Luoyang was a blackened ruin. Later, he wrote a poem about what he saw. For Ts'ao Chih, the blackened ruins of Luoyang became an emblem of the golden age that had now passed. Only decades before, China had been ruled by a single emperor from a dynasty known as the Han, and a period of prosperity had reigned. The Han were the first lasting dynasty to unite China under a single banner, and people believed that this golden age would never end. But now the poet Ts'ao Chih walked among the ruins and ravaged fields of the former capital, and felt his memories rise up from the soot-stained stones. As he walked through those ruins, Ts'ao Chih must have asked himself; how had the first great age of Imperial China come to such a devastating end? Why had the people of Luoyang left this city to burn and crumble into the earth? In the centuries to come, would the golden age of the emperors ever return? ***

THE RUINS OF LO-YANG

By Ts'ao Chih [A. D. 192–233], third son of Ts'ao Ts'ao. He was a great favourite with his father till he made a mistake in a campaign. In this poem he returns to look at the ruins of Lo-yang, where he used to live. It had been sacked by Tung Cho.

***

The Ruins of Lo-Yang
by Ts'ao Chih
207 A.D.

I climb to the ridge of Beimang Mountain and look down on the city of Luoyang.
In Luoyang how still it is! Palaces and houses all burnt to ashes.
Walls and fences all broken and gaping, thorns and brambles shooting up to the sky.
I do not see elders from former days. I only see young men. I turn aside, for the straight road is lost.
The fields are overgrown and will never be ploughed again. I have been away such a long time that I do not know which street is which.
How sad and ugly the empty fields are! A thousand miles without the smoke of a chimney.
I think of the house I lived in all those years; my breath catches and I cannot speak.
The autumn winds shake the hundred grasses. On every side, how desolate and bare!
Prosperity and decay each have their season.
The Eastern Castle stands tall and high. Far and wide stretch the towers that guard it.
The whirling wind uprises and shakes the earth. The four seasons alternate without pause.
The year’s end hurries swiftly on. I drive my chariot up to the Eastern Gate.
From afar I see the graveyard north of the wall. Beneath lie men who died long ago.
Black is the long night that holds them. Thousands of years they lie without waking.
In infinite succession light and darkness shift, and years vanish like the morning dew.
Man’s life is just a visit. Mourners in their turn were mourned.
The dead are gone and with them we cannot converse. The living are here and ought to have our love.
Leaving the city-gate I look ahead and see before me only mounds and tombs.
The old graves are ploughed up into fields. The years of a lifetime do not reach a hundred.
Yet they contain a thousand years’ sorrow. Cold, cold the year draws to its end.
I go and lean at the gate and think of my grief, and my falling tears wet the double gates. I want to go home, to ride to my village gate.
I want to go back, but there’s no road back.
There’s no road back.  
admin
Site Admin
 
Posts: 36126
Joined: Thu Aug 01, 2013 5:21 am

Return to Poetry

Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 3 guests