Classic Poem

Heavy dew. Thick mist. Dense grass.
Trees grow on the broken balconies
Willows choke the empty moat.
Fallen flowers litter the courts.
The drunken parties are long gone.
At the fifth watch, under the waning moon,
A nightingale is singing.
I dream of those perfumed lives
That died in inconsolable grief.
The ancient palace is a heap of ruins.
The road has vanished
The landscape is the same
The works of men are being obliterated
When I pass by the broken gate
My horse whinnies again and again.