The son of heaven, erupts with rage,
The south, dare profane my land,
The court tries to appease,
But to no avail.
The emperor's decree,
Bugle the horn and prepare for war!
The granaries full, the armoury filled,
The journey is long.
Kneel, to their parents,
Pray to their gods,
And fly kisses to their love,
Then they march.
Treacherous road, even more the goal,
The entourage proceeds,
Joins the youth, with sickle and hoes,
To their end,
For the love of their land.
South is in sight,
This green plain, todays battleground,
The sun dazzles the land,
As it awaits without care.
The enemy a swarm of yellow,
And ours the mighty black,
The dawn is long,
Close they eyes,
Reminiscence if it's their last,
The tears of mother,
The stern look on my father,
The embrace of love,
And the playful children.
And they march,
The horse gallops,
And within heart blazes a fire,
Of anger and wrath,
For their country.
Clang, the shields raised high,
Roar, the spears pierce deep,
And shine the metallic armour,
And dye the green with red.
The wind bellows,
And With it carries the smell of blood,
The land a shade of green and dark red,
A beautiful red poppy.
The light of day dares not intrude the flower,
Herein lies the true hell, feast upon it,
And see what you create,
The bugle calls the end of war,
But none a soul shouts a victory call
In a serene morning,
A widow, dares interrupt my court,
Within a web of spears,
The widow with eyes of fire,
"His Majesty, Your imperial highness, I hear
Your country won, What about the people?"