Last year we fought
At River’s source;
This year. we fight
Along its course.
We’ve washed our swords in Parthian seas off bloody stains,
And grazed our horses on the grass in mountain’s snow.
For miles and miles we made campaigns
Till weak and old our warriors grow.
The Tartars live on killing as on ploughing land,
Bleach’d bones of olden times are buried in the sand.
Under the Qin against the foe Great Wall was raised;
Under the HanR the beacon fires still blazed.
See beacon fires on the frontier!
Still warriors fight from year to year.
In wilderness the fighters die,
Riderless horses neigh toward the sky;
Crows pecking human entrails flee
And hang them on a withered tree.
The blood of soldiers smears the grass.
Without them what could generals do?
War is a fearful thing, alas!
For rulers wise, ‘twould be the last means resorted to.