At dawn, the conscripted soldiers enter the camp outside the Eastern Gate.

At sunset, they cross the bridge of Ho Yang.

The setting sunlight is reflected on the great flags.

Horses neigh. The wind whines—whines—

Ten thousand tents are spread along the level sand.

Officers instruct their companies.

The bright moon hangs in the middle of the sky.

The written orders are strict that the night shall be still and empty.

Sadness everywhere. A few sounds from a Mongol flageolet jar the air.

The strong soldiers are no longer proud, they quiver with sadness.

May one ask who is their General?

Perhaps it is Ho P'iao Yao.