Classic Poem

Home, home, though I come home,
it's not the home I knew and loved.

Mountain pheasants brood,
cuckoos call in season,

but my heart has no home; a cloud
floating toward a distant port.

Today too I climb to the summit.
White spotty flowers smile in sympathy.

They do not hear the sound of the grass flute
I played as a child;
bitter, bitter absence to parched lips.

Home, home, though I come home,
only the sky I loved is high and blue.