by Eddie Tay
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Fighting South (Li Po)
We are building a wall ten thousand miles
from mud of villages where our women wait;
though men fall like flowers and are washed
in sweat, our beacons never die.
We clash wherever two roads meet.
For the Han the field is a farm where heads
of crops are parched like skulls.
We rear our swords and horses
from Himalayan cold to Caspian Sea,
breaking our blades at red waters
of Mulberry, till the banks shore up
offerings of bleached bones and skin.
For the Han the field is a farm where heads
of crops are parched like skulls.
How we struggle at Onion River Road!
Our metals clatter, and crows and kites
swoon over carcasses, stringing
our guts on trees. The hair on my head
has turned from black to grey.
For the Han the field is a farm where heads
of crops are parched like skulls.
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The P'eng-Ya Road (Tu Fu)
Running from the rebels we headed north
in darkness. We were ashamed to look anyone
in the eyes. Though our shoes were shredded
by sharp rocks, we were aided by the moon,
and birds sang their pity from the trees.
My daughter, held against my chest, bit my arm
in hunger. I was afraid her cries would summon tigers
from the south. My son put on a show of bravery,
picking up bitter plums from edges of the road.
Ten days we walked, struggling among the mud
through peltings of rain. We had low branches
for roofs, wild berries for feasts. We bathed,
waded in flooded creeks, pushed our bodies
through thick reluctance of swamps,
till we saw lamps from windows of a house
where a friend lived. His wife and children
opened their arms and home, washed us
and calmed our trembling skin.
That was a year ago near the marsh.
I had never known generosity from another man,
nor has meat from any plate tasted as sweet.
Our enemies are still burning our country.
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Arrowhead (Li Ho)
I ride like thunder among black ashes
in a land nourished by bones
and broken armour, for there is a talent
from the demons that makes me sing.
My twin horses stamp their hoofs
upon graspings of weeds.
Witness the night's conjuring:
as the sun slides behind these mountains,
clouds raise their heads like locusts
rearing for plunder. I listen
to the wailing of spectres in the wind.
Here are reeds forced out of the ground
like fire; here, once the shaft of an arrow,
is a naked piece of wood. This is an arrowhead
once buried in the flesh. I pick it up and listen
to the wailing of spectres in the wind.
I ride like thunder among black ashes,
for there is a talent from the demons
that makes me sing. A boy from the village
begs for the piece of metal. I exchange it
for a basket. I think I saw a few stars
die that night, but I cannot stop.
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Barren (Li Shang-yin)
The land was made thin;
I came back by a descent
on the southern slope
to a country cracked open
by greed and snow,
where fields had lost their fragrance.
Walking along paths
of dying oxen,
I picked up tools
thrown away by farmers,
gathered sacks empty of grain
and thought of days when children
played finger games in these streets.
Now, they are quiet as hunger;
though roads to the village
are covered in thorns and brambles
government soldiers
bear arms shiny at their waists,
carry bows and fresh arrows,
and change horses at every station.
I have been warned by many not to speak,
but east of the capital with imperial banners
is a country of broken huts,
where villagers have no clothes,
their sons sent to fight for a land
that bears no crops.
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