The season of Shadow draws to an end in silence,
Monotonous, endless clouds cover the sky.
The swarming snow swirls down like crane-feathers falling,
The flying thistledown spins past like whirling wheels.
The homing geese know well where the warm sun is shining,
While birds in their nests contrive to keep out of the cold
On the river's twin shores, the icy sands gleam white,
And hunters' fires have turned all the mountains red
Men with clothes like feathers on a hanging quail—
I sigh for their lives in backstreet empty rooms.