The whole poem is as follows:
I traveled to Shandong yesterday and recalled Yueyang in the East. Looking at the sun in the poor autumn, looking at the eight shortages.
Zhu Ya is unscathed, and the blue sea blows clothes. Ru Shou is in trouble, but Xuan Ming is very strong.
The name of the town is different from that of the DPRK. The plain is haggard and the agricultural power is wasted.
It's not wind exposure, it's defensive injury. When the country is rich, it is enough to defend the frontier.
The imperial court served as a valiant soldier and took Ronglutian far away. Up to now, things are still going on and on, which brings tears to my eyes.
The turtle has disappeared, and I feel thoughtful. Lung failure is a protracted war, with bone heat and intestine heat.
Worry about the sword, worry about going to Lin Beigang. Poisonous apes and birds fall, and the south of the gorge is dry and yellow.
The autumn wind has also started, and Jianghan is like soup. If you want to climb higher, you will find that there are no beams in Sichuan.
Sad for the expedition, went home and died on the road. Not as good as my grandfather's, and there are quite a lot of graves.