Classic Poem

Grasses enclose the old palaces as waning sunlight shifts.
A lone wind-tossed cloud stops briefly: on what can it depend?
The view here, mountains and rivers, has never changed,
Yet the people within the city walls already are half gone.
The reed flowers that fill the land have grown old with me,
But into whose eaves have the swallows of my former home flown?
Now I depart on the road out of Chiang-nan;
Transformed into a weeping cuckoo, reeking of blood, I shall return.