Now fine homes in ten prefectures have dead sons
making water with their blood on Ch’en-t’ao Marsh.

An early winter’s panoramic waste: crystal sky,
the silence of war. Forty thousand dead in a day.

Mongol battalions return. Their arrows bathed blood-
black, drunk in the markets, they sing Mongol songs.

And we face north to mourn, another day conjuring
our army’s appearance passing into hopeful night.

translated by David Hinton