China · Daixian County, Shanxi

## Yanmen Pass: A Millennia-Old Frontier Ballad Whispered by the Wind The walls of Yanmen Pass resemble a vigorous bronze dragon, coiled atop the Yanmen Mountains. As I stepped onto the arrow-scarred blue bricks, the midday sun cast the wrinkles of a thousand years onto the mottled walls. The wind whistling through the battlements seemed to carry the twang of Li Guang's bowstring, the flutter of Wei Qing's banners, and the thunder of Huo Qubing's cavalry crushing the smoke signals of the Xiongnu. The crumbling beacon towers rise and fall among the mountains like a string of jade beads smoothed by time. Standing on the commanding platform and gazing into the distance, the Taihang Mountains surge towards the horizon like waves of ink. A few tenacious poplars stretch their gnarled branches on the cliff edge, and in the interplay of light and shadow among the branches, one can almost discern the figures of border guards sharpening their swords. The autumn mountain wind, laden with sand, whips across my face, carrying the distinct chill of clashing armies. Touching the deep axe marks on the stone walls of the barbican, my fingertips encounter not only the rough rock but also the melancholic notes of Wang Zhaojun's pipa as she journeyed beyond the frontier, the loyal blood of the Yang family, and the desolation of Li He's verse, "Black clouds press down on the city, as if to crush it." Around a corner, a wild apricot tree emerges from a crack in the wall, its golden leaves swirling in the wind, intertwining with grass stems protruding from the rammed earth wall to form a flowing epic in the light and shadow. As dusk deepens, flocks of geese fly past the eaves of the gate tower, their long calls harmonizing with the bells of the corner tower. Moonlight washes over the mottled walls, transforming the homesickness of the soldiers, the poets' laments, and the dust of history into the richest, strongest liquor of the frontier. At this moment, I realize that this majestic pass, forged with beacon fires and poetry, has never truly slumbered.