Classic Poem

A traveler, a traveler, Zimei his name,
white hair tousled, dangling below the ears,
through the years gathering acorns in the wake of the monkey pack:
cold skies at dusk within a mountain valley
No word from the middle plain, no hope of going home;
hands and feet chilled and chapped, skin and flesh grown numb,
Ah-ah, song the first, a song already sad;
mournful winds for my sake come down from the sky.