human
Mother, the heavens are bright like brass, The dust is shaken high, With labouring breath the soldiers pass, Their lips are cracked and dry.
gpt
Mother, I'll throw them apples down, I'll bring them pails of water.
human
But mother, see, they faint with thirst, They march away to die,
gpt
Ah, sweet, had I but known at first Their throats are always dry.
human
There is no water can supply them In western streams that flow, There is no fruit can satisfy them On orchard trees that grow.
gpt
Once in my youth I gave, poor fool, A soldier apples and water, So may I die before you cool Your father's drouth, my daughter.