Song of the Conscripts Du Fu Chariots rumble and horses grumble.

The conscripts march with bow and arrows at the waist.

Their fathers, mothers, wives and children come in haste To see them off; the bridge is shrouded in dust they've raised.

They clutch at their coats, stamp the feet and bar the way; Their grief cries loud and strikes the cloud straight, straightaway.

An onlooker by roadside asks an enrollee.

"The conscription is frequent," only answers he.

Some went north at fifteen to guard the rivershore, And were sent west to till the land at forty.

The elder bound their young heads when they went away; Just home, they're sent to the frontier though their hair's gray.

The field on borderland becomes a sea of blood; The emperor's greed for land is still at high flood.

Have you not heard two hundred districts east of the Hua Mountains lie, Where briers and brambles grow in villages far and nigh?