Classic Poem

It was at the Noon Bridge we were drinking —
Most of us men of high talent and ambition.
The stream below with a shimmering moon in its lap
Was gliding silently away into the distance;
In the sparse shadows of blossoming apricot
Wafted the notes of a flute till daybreak.

Twenty-odd summers gone by fleet as a dream,
unsettling — to find myself here still.
Idly I ascend the small tower
For a view of the scene after rain,
Regaled with snatches of the fishermen's midnight song
Telling of the vicissitudes of past and present.