On that bleak frontier, thousands suffered For the Emperor's cruel project; Men with hollow stomachs making endless mounds To fashion his recreation hall. The monster was alike to its creation: Heartless in the handling of generals. When Li Guang, an expert strategist, Fell into the hands of barbarians, He played possum and seized a horse, Riding for nine miles to rejoin his men, Spitting arrows at his pursuers. After bringing his troop safely home, He was recommended for execution. ...Woe befalls he who settles there, Where exhausted horses go to pace, Where the crows are the only ones eating. Should the rice harvest fail, a soldier will go To the red northern gate and die unmourned. The fruits of the south are sweet in all seasons, But the fruit of the Long Wall is ruin and death.
More belongs to he who holds the stone, Of fortune's birth, the pharaoh of our time. When words proceed, he directs them; When foes recede, he compels them. Hear the labor-stricken bones of men Wail out from death and sooted soil: Hail the River King, our stoneworks praise him! Hail the River King, the rushes raise him!