Classic Poem

Three feet of mud in this narrow alley:
no one comes to visit me, hidden in seclusion.
Whistling at the window, the wind keeps me from sleep;
dampening the stove, raindrops make poverty even worse.
On country roads, wild flowers greet the traveler,
on bridges spanning the river, willows see him off.
For now, I must lead this primitive life
and rest this exiled body as best I can.