Classic Poem

Outside the city, desolate, an ancient terrace;
the story still is told — it once rained flowers here.
Winds whistle through the great gorge,
a thread of smoke floats up;
birds accompany reed sails
on tall masts as they return.
The ruined temple has a bell,
lonely in the dawn;
clear-voiced gibbons, dreamless,
cry out in sorrow at night.
Floating clouds I watch disperse
here, above my cup;
for some reason, in this land of the immortals
I think of the end of the world.