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
As opposed to a “not thinking chitalia”
If you want to be a hero well just follow me
il disinganno prima dell'illusione
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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.