Lonely bones can't sleep nights. Singing
insects keep calling them, calling them.
And the old have no tears. When they sob,
autumn weeps dewdrops. Strength failing
all at once, as if cut lose, and ravages
everywhere, like weaving unravelled,
I touch thread-ends. No new feelings.
Memories crowding thickening sorrow,
how could I bear southbound sails, how
wander rivers and mountains of the past?
Under this autumn moon's face of frozen
beauty, the spirit driving an old wanderer
thins away. Cold dewdrops fall shattering
dreams. Biting winds comb cold through
bones. The sleeping-mat stamped with my
seal of sickness, whorled grief twisting,
there's nothing to depend on against fears.
Empty, sounds beginning nowhere, I listen.
Wu-t'ung trees, bare and majestic, sing
sound and echo clear as a
ch'in's lament.