From the traveler, singing; from the field, weeping—both spur sorrow.
Fires in the distance, dipping stars move slowly toward extinction.
Am I waiting up for New Year’s? Aching eyes won’t close.
No one here speaks my dialect: I long for home.
A double quilt and my feet still cold—the frost must be heavy;
my head feels light—I washed it and the hair is getting thin.
I thank the flickering torch that doesn’t refuse
to keep me company on a lonely boat through the night.
translated by Burton Watson