SOLDIERS’ SONG
Yellow grasses in the ditch.
Day and night we march
In the fierce sun, under freezing stars.
The generals ride in cars.
Every field burnt black.
No sense looking back —
Home a million miles away.
Short rations and no pay.
Rhinos, tigers have it made.
Die clean compared to us.
Muck caked toe to face,
Eating dung and dust.
Long-tailed foxes hide in holes.
We march — the wounded groan
In the ox-carts dragged along.
A million miles from home.
—Anonymous
The Book of Odes, translated by Richard O’Connell
This poem appears in the April 16 print issue of NR.