They conscript the men, form them into troops, a militia of sorts,
Along the road, a hundred and fifty thousand souls.
Gongs clang, drums beat, banners part and flutter,
Swords in hand, clad in armor, they mimic the official guard.
Wives clutch at sleeves, fathers hold and weep,
Tears flow like springs, blood stains their bodies deep.
They march ahead, knowing not how far the road extends,
Ordered to cross the Yellow River by a set date.
Each man bears six dou of grain, a straw cloak and hat,
Rations for two soldiers, plus his own share at that.
High or low, each day they're doled two sheng,
Six dou can last but ten days on this regime.
The great army camps at night, must choose a site,
Not every ground is safe, some stages lie in fright.
No more than thirty li they march each day,
Or face assaults, or in fierce battles fray.
Ten days pass, not ten stages are complete,
Their burdens gone, nothing left to eat.
Porters head south, the army northward goes,
The gap grows wider, no supply line shows.
The foe, hearing of invasion, hides and flees,
Their cunning schemes run deep, impossible to seize.
The troops, worn, frozen, starved, lose will to fight,
Just as the enemy's fresh forces come in sight.
Ancient armies marched without their grain,
Living off the foe, a certain gain.
Whoever drew this plan, I cannot tell,
It only traps the living in a hell.
They pray to stay alive, return home whole,
Pushing ahead, risking life and soul.
The dead conscripts' white bones soak in the river,
The water's mournful gurgle makes one shiver.
Of the hundred and fifty thousand who set out,
How many remain after time's ruthless rout?
Fearful that grain shortage halts the campaign,
More orders rush to draft supply men again.
Households are scoured till no men are left,
The county magistrate dares not say they're bereft.
They press all wives into service as men,
And when numbers fall short, the frail and aged then.
The sick and disabled cannot bear the load,
So the eldest daughter at home takes the road.
Brutal clerks storm in and drive them away,
To strip you bare, lest official wrath hold sway.
Hemp ropes bind waists, robes stamped with official seal,
Cloth binds their shins, heads wrapped, a wretched deal.
Lost in the gloom, east or west they cannot tell,
Driven forth like dogs and pigs, a living hell.
Before they settle at the post, they're rushed ahead,
Sobs choked in heart, a bitter sorrow spread.
Shouldering rice, they whisper as they part,
"Wives long to see husbands, daughters seek their father's heart."
At home, lonely and bitter, they resent their plight,
At the front, life or death may reunite.
Ice and frost crack their feet, a painful blight,
Tears hang as they search for kin in the desert's night.
In the general's tent, the war drums sound no more,
With women in the ranks, the army's spirit's poor.
Imperial envoys gallop, ask when this will cease,
A panicked order sends them home for peace.
Hearing of return, they rush south to the Han frontier,
Midway, western bandits spy, stirring new fear.
Mournful, they sigh, life's thread is frail and brief,
They see not father nor husband, stifling grief.
One body, torn between going and stay, in茫然 despair,
Wishing to head south, yet gazing northward there.