Classic Poem

They fought south of the wall,
died north of the outworks,
lie dead in the fields unburied,
fine food for the crows.
Tell the crows for me,
weep for these strangers!
Dead in the field, if no one buries them,
how can their rotting flesh hope to escape you?
Waters are deep, swift and strong,
rushes and reed banks cluster darkly;
the brave horsemen have fought and died,
their weary mounts wander here and there, neighing.
On the bridge they built sentry huts—
how could we go south? how could we go north?
And if we do not gather in the grain and millet,
what will our lord have to eat?
We want to be loyal subjects, but what can we do?
I think of you, good subjects,
good subjects, how I remember—
at dawn you set off to battle;
night fell, but you never came back.