Song of the Young Lord An: Rain Ends on the Far Shore

The far shore drinks in the last of the rain; the rain ended, I feel the river sky turn to evening. On the islet where they gather kingfisher plumes all is hushed; gulls and herons stand in pairs. I mark a few points of fishing lamps hidden among the reeds. The painted oars are rested; boatmen talk in pairs, saying that tonight's course points far away to a village in the smoky trees.

An official's wandering has made a traveler of me. Against the short mast I chant, leaning idly, gazing long. Ten thousand waters, a thousand hills — far or near, I cannot tell; I wonder where my homeland lies. Since we parted, I have missed the happy gatherings in wind-swept pavilions and moonlit terraces; and now, all at once, the heart breaks with the bitterness of leaving. I hear the cuckoo cry again and again, urging a man: you had best go home.