Classic Poem

This autumn
Sitting in my chair
This is what I can do.
My ears bend to the sound of the wind.
Peeking into the mailbox once again
As if walking up and down an empty hospital corridor,
To quietly return inward is my work.

As day follows day
Who makes the earth's buds dry up?
Here and there who sets fires, large and small?
This year's bleached bones
Left to pile up on vacant land everywhere.
I am unable to lift even one finger
Nor to keep one leaf from withering.

Myself,
My work this autumn,
To sit in my chair,
Bidding farewell to the sun at noon,
Quietly awaiting the evening,
Reverently welcoming the onset of winter.