The bird in flight parts from the old wood,
chirps and cries as if full of pain.
The nomad horse longs for his old trough,
neighs sadly, his feet not surging forth.
And here I am, in my parents' land;
it's not that I didn't want to come before!
But I was kept at White Gate for so long
that it was hard to find a time to come.
Now I take advantage of this moment:
I could not bear to miss the slightest chance.
People that I only half knew once
knock at the door to say hello.
The earth I trod on when I was a boy:
each spot bears the imprint of my shoes!
Daylight ends, I light the evening candle;
I glance back each step of the way.
People ask, " So how are you doing? "
I just smile, and point at my white hair.