Each year, come the late autumn evenings,
I sit by the lamp recalling my old home,
gardens and groves red with oranges and pomelos,
windows and doors blue with Hsiao and Hsiang waters.
But since I left you old age has come on,
I quail at the long road that parts us.
Brothers young and old, just so you’re well,
tending fields and silkworms amid these fires of war!
translated by Burton Watson
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you have reminded me of all those things left behind…
And there are things we leave behind.
I had to read it twice, beautiful.
It is lovely.