In the dense fragrance of osmanthus, I stand upon the ramparts of ancient Jinling, Reflecting on the heroes and the great from bygone days.
The land is as a painting, but the heroes are no more, Only the ruins and the silent years remain. Time flows on, eroding the tales of heroes into fragments, Leaving only scattered verses in the vast river of history. Alone, I wander in the wind, listening to the echoes of history, My heart brimming with endless reflections.