Marching in the snow, stepping on ice We can’t even tell road from river The horses are beaten, but we can’t leave them Just what is this place? It’s all enemy country Oh well, if we breath a little bravery I’ll only ask for little: a couple ciggies. Dried fish that won’t cook becomes our half-boiled meals It’s not long before we’re living half-boiled days For this cold that can’t be endured, a bonfire Surely it will smoke, chaps! The green wood smoulders Putting on a bitter face, a skilful speech: The “sour” thing here’s a pickled plum. The clothes we wear are our carefree beds We cover under our overcoats on knapsack pillows With the warmth of our backs, the snow thaws, Soaking wet our millet-husk bedding. In bivouacs that won’t tie, there are dreams That the moon peeks into, coldly. Because we came here offering our lives, With a death resolution, even as we charge shouting, If the fortunes of war so wish, we must die in battle. The donated padded clothes, entwined in duty, Slowly, slowly, fasten upon our necks. Anyhow, the intention wasn’t to let us return alive.