Classic Poem

Fanning away the heat
I sit at night before the lamp;
chunks of ice are piled like mountains on my desk.
You are doing well, my friend,
the times are right for you,
while I seem incapable,
out of tune with the world.
We write poems under heavy clouds;
our friendship, deep —
we look straight into each other's eyes.
My humble home has no entertainment or music —
When guests come, we spend our time
discussing Buddhist sutras.