Classic Poem

Your little house stands in a bamboo grove.
Your boat — " Floating Duckweed " — waits by the shore.
It is Autumn — the last leaves have fallen,
the wind shakes the trees;
the bamboo curtains are bright in the moonlight.
I ask your age —
you point to your white hair.
We discuss the Book of Changes under a dim lamp.
Tomorrow, you will leave, to the East, to the West —
winecups in our hands, we gaze at the stars of dawn.