The Departed Grow Daily More Distant

Those who are gone grow daily more distant; those who come grow daily more dear.

I go out the outer gate and look straight ahead—only mounds and graves are to be seen.

The ancient tombs are ploughed into fields; pines and cypresses hacked for firewood.

The white poplars hold much mournful wind; their rustling kills the heart with sorrow.

I would go back to my old village lane, but there is no way to return.