While young, beneath my flag I had ten thousand knights;
With these outfitted cavaliers I crossed the river.
The foe prepared their silver shafts during the nights;
During the days we shot arrows from golden quiver.

I can’t call those days back
Or sigh over my plight;
The vernal wind can’t change my hair from white to black.
Since thwarted in my plan to recover the lost land,
I’d learned from neighbours how to plant fruit trees by hand.

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