Classic Poem

Early in the ninth month I went back to my birthplace; the day lilies of the north hall had died off in the frost, now with no trace left. Everything had changed from the past; my siblings had white hair on their temples, wrinkles on their brows. We could say no more than, " We are alive. " My brother opened his amulet and said, " Look at mother's white hair. Urashima's comb box — your eyebrows have grown old, too. " He wept for a while:
If taken in hand, autumn frost will melt — the tears are hot