None

Feeds on the previous dynasty’s grain, relying too much on others,

Different ranks and interests—unable to sail in the same boat.

It stirs no trouble, yet petty people rise,

With a smile, letting it all drift with the current.

The old system is hard to change, fearing new attacks,

Calmly shrinking its steps, working the abacus.

Relying on others’ inherited achievements to be called a hero,

When matters come to a head, hiding in a crack in the wall.

Guests before the steps have long grown cold,

Grand complaints pressing on day after day.

Praying to gods and consulting divination—how could that reveal good fortune?

With little virtue and no support, calamity piles itself up.

A grand blueprint drawn on a cake—empty high-minded talk,

This move in the endgame is made in spring.

Retreating into seclusion behind a mountain like scattered snow,

Once the raging tide has fallen, who is there to ask?

Completely disregarding the affection of former classmates,

Cleverly setting up right and wrong as a tiger’s skin.

Suffering false alarms from outside while manipulating power within,

Deceiving itself and its guests, ultimately becoming foolish.

Wasting away the years, leaving long-standing scars,

Throughout the court, it is hard to find this spirit.

Customarily wielding official authority against laborers,

Then changing its mind and shirking blame, with no intention of stopping.

The old general ceases scheming, with few hands to pull,

The new workers blaze trails amid drifting sand.

Alone, hated throughout the world,

Who would be willing to bear the falling flowers for you?

With scant virtue and shallow hopes, it invites its own ruin,

Do not force a show of cheerfulness when the game is over.

If asked where the final road leads,

A discarded thing among humanity, mixed in with the garbage.