Classic Poem

Have you not seen the young men
Going off to the wars?
They have turned into white-haired exiles
Because they can never return
Their homes are hidden in the distance,
Cut off by night and day
Rivers and mountain passes
Bar them off from their world.
The desert-wind moans sadly,
Scudding white clouds
Poignant the flutes of the nomads
In the bitter, frontier air.
The music fills them with sadness,
But what are they to do?
Climbing a hill and gazing south,
For a while they are young again
Trampled under nomad horses,
They will see their families no more
Man runs a rough road through life—
But what is there to say?
Ravaged by endless sorrows,
They get to their feet with a sigh.