Classic Poem

Old pine trees, their shaggy manes
twirled in a dance by the wind;
row on row of tombs, one wisp of smoke
rising from nowhere.
The lords and princes who once lived
along Bronze Camel Avenue
have become the dust that settles on the traveler's face.
The white poplar on top of the mountain
has turned into an old woman
who spends each night in the fields,
chasing away tigers of stone.
Officials come to this place, face north
toward the Mausoleum of Longevity,
and give thanks that the crows who perch here
speak Chinese.