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Each man of you has a bow

The war-chariots rattle, The war-horses whinny.

Each man of you has a bow and a quiver at his belt. Father, mother, son, wife, stare at you going,

Till dust shall have buried the bridge beyond Changan. They run with you, crying, they tug at your sleeves, And the sound of their sorrow goes up to the clouds; And every time a bystander asks you a question,

You can only say to him that you have to go.

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