An Arrowhead from the Ancient Battlefield of Ch’ang-P’ing

From the Chinese. 

Lacquer dust and powdered bone
and red-coloured cinnabar:
their ancient blood spurted out
to bear these bronze flowers.
The white feathers and gilt shaft
have rotted in the rain
and only the three broken wolf’s-teeth
of the spine remain.

Riding the plain with two horses
I searched to the stone-choked fields
east of the post-station where the hill
is overgrown with weeds.
The wind blew constantly that short day
and the desolate stars were obscured
by tatters of clouds hanging
in darkness between us.

From each side of me
the dead shrieked out in hunger.
I drained the curds from my flask
and offered roast mutton as victual.
But the insects were silent, the geese swooned,
the reed-shoots were blighted.
Voices flickered in the fire
and pursued me as I left.

I sought this place in vain
and found only a broken arrow
whose shattered point, rusted and snapped,
once pierced through human flesh.
In the eastern quarter, travelling south,
a young pedlar on horseback
urged me to exchange the relic
for a votive-basket.