Days and months never take their time.
The four seasons keep bustling each other

away. Cold winds churn lifeless branches.
Fallen leaves cover long paths. We’re

frail, crumbling with each turning year.
Our temples turn white early, and once

that bleached streamer’s tucked into your
hair, the road ahead starts closing in.

This house is an inn awaiting travelers,
and I another guest leaving. All this

leaving and leaving—where will I ever
end up? My old home’s on South Mountain.

translated by David Hinton