The trellis, shorn of grapes,
has let fall its red jade;
cold dew in the distant night raises gooseflesh.
Dark cicadas nestled in the grass
chirp dissatisfaction,
vainly laboring to weave a tapestry without threads.
Soul in dream, alas! so short,
the road, so long;
deep among ten thousand mountains —
this is not my home.
The lampwick flutters in the jar,
fireflies enter the room,
the parting wild goose, the coming letter,
surely are foretold;
my waking eyes are glittering — ten thousand
pints of grief.