We march over vast spaces and dangerous terrains
Bazookas and guns at ready we dare besiege the foe
Our wounds ooze with pus or blood like do floods in rain
Victory not won yet we sigh but urge on in rows.
We left our homes and mothers a long time ago
War hardened now, who’d know our ferocious sorrow?
We fight two gruesome battles a day; our warrior gowns are with bullet holes torn
My temple hair with grief is now turned gray; brokenheartedly we bury the dead in haste
The dim moon toss, July wild winds turn, in tears, younger conscript hang their pates.