Classic Poem

On this day of my birth, I see no visitors:
the family is busy with the celebration!
As evening draws on—
green wine, yellow oranges—
I'm congratulated for being seventy-three.

Candles wish me joy with their flames,
my relatives—branches of the same tree—
crowd around,
with golden chrysanthemums.
The little grandchildren
imitate their elder brothers
who kneel before me and present me with poems.