Classic Poem

Hungry and cold, under Ping City's walls,
Night after night we guard the shining moon.
Our farewell swords have lost their sheen,
The Gobi wind cuts through our temple-hair.

Endless desert merges with white void,
But see—far off—the red of Chinese banners,
In their black tents they're blowing short flutes,
Mist and haze soaking their painted dragons.

At twilight, up there on the city walls,
We stare into the shadows of those walls,
The wind is blowing, stirring dead tumbleweed,
Our starving horses whinny within the walls.

Just ask the builders of these walls
How many thousand leagues from the Pass we are?
Rather than go home as bundled corpses
We'll turn our lances on ourselves and die.”