Classic Poem

For a long time we've been apart—
I've often thought of you.
Imagine my joy at meeting you
at this city by the river.
To know what you're doing
I depend on words from the heart;
it's hard for old men to expect to meet
years in the future.
The forest blossoms fall to the ground,
blown to powder by the wind.
The eaves-drops stop their sound,
the rain scatters its threads.
Tomorrow our solitary tracks
will diverge again: north and south.
I will have the wind seal this poem
behind the wall.