Sun and moon refuse to slow their pace;
the four seasons press and hurry each other onward.
Cold wind shakes the bare branches,
fallen leaves blanket the long lane.
Weak by nature, I feel myself decay with time’s passing,
the black hair at my temples already turned white.
Flecks of gray find their way into my head,
signs that the road ahead wll grow more and more narrow.
What is a house but an inn on a journey,
and I a traveler who must keep moving on?
Move on, move on–and where will I go?
My old home is there on the southern mountain.
translated by Burton Watson2
Leonard Durso 
my life at the moment…
Mine, too.
my Dad always said ‘you can never go back’…
True words.
I agree – though the great nieces and nephews put considerable spark into what is going on.
That’s good.
T’ao Yuan-Ming is just great.
Yes, I know you admire him.
Love it, thank you!
Glad you do.