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.


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