Classic Poem

Mounting your horse, you did not take your whip,
Instead you broke a branch from the willow-tree
Walking and sitting I played on my flute,
Its sadness would break any traveler's heart.

Deep down within me I was miserable,
Oh! how I wished that I could be your whip!
Coming and going, I'd be worn at your wrist,
Journeying and halting to rest upon your knee.

Far off you can descry the Mengjin ford,
And all its clumps of dancing willow-trees
But I am only a girl of a nomad tribe,
And cannot understand your Chinese songs.

A hero needs a horse that's swift of foot,
And a horse that's swift of foot needs have a hero.
As hooves go thundering through the yellow dust,
I shall soon know who was the victor.