“Hey, Zhang! Tell me, which is farther away, the sun or Chang'an?” On the battered walls of Kucha, an old soldier with white hair and blood all over him leaned on his notched Mo Dao. Gasping for breath, he looked at another bloodied veteran nearby, whose hair was as white as fresh snow.
“Chang'an, I suppose! You can see the sun every morning when you open your eyes, but you could stare until your eyes gave out and still not see Chang'an,” Zhang replied slowly. His eyes were distant, filled with longing and reluctance to let go...
The city gates opened. Guo Xin raised his blade like a pillar reaching for the sky and cried, “Our white hair and Mo Daos are still not old! We'll cut down the Tibetans and go home. Brothers, we're going home!” He charged out through the gates first. Behind him, dozens, nearly a hundred, white-haired veterans raised their weapons and shouted, “We're going home!” They swept like the wind toward the Tibetan army besieging the city.
This scene called to mind the poem:
Our white hair and Mo Daos are still not old,
We'll cut down the Tibetans and go home.
Aging soldiers defend a lonely city,
Yet no sage king sits in the court.
The white-haired general rides to battle,
Veterans in their sixties fall at the front.
They yearn each day for the imperial army, but it never comes,
And Heaven weeps for these old warriors.
