Classic Poem

At fifteen I joined the army,
At eighty I first came home
On the road I met a villager,
" At my home what kin are there? "
" Look over there — that's your home! "
Pine, cypress, burial mounds piled, piled high,
Hares going in through dog holes,
Pheasants flying in through rafter tops;
The inner garden grown wild with corn,
Over the well wild mallow growing.
I pound grain to serve for a meal,
I pick mallow to serve for broth.
Once broth and meal are cooked
I'm at a loss to know whom to feed.
I leave by the gates, look east
Tears fall and soak my clothes.