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Confucius - On The Misery Of Soldiers
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Yellow now is all the grass;
  All the days in marching pass.
  On the move is every man;
  Hard work, far and near, they plan.

  Black is every plant become;
  Every man is torn from home.
  Kept on foot, our state is sad;--
  As if we no feelings had!

  Not rhinoceroses we!
  Tigers do we care to be?
  Fields like these so desolate
  Are to us a hateful fate.

  Long-tailed foxes pleased may hide
  `Mong the grass, where they abide.
  We, in box carts slowly borne,
  On the great roads plod and mourn.
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