Classic Poem

After my illness, so hard to be a traveler!
At the edge of the sky, alone, just myself.
How many days since I heard the magpie's call?
For a thousand miles, I haven't met a soul.
My dreams are good—an empty kind of happiness;
my poems have gotten better—no cure for poverty!
I'm ashamed to let loose this fishing boat of mine
along the banks of the Five Lakes.