Classic Poem

You ask when I will go back home—
there's no itinerary;
autumn light, this traveler's feelings:
both are chill and clear.
Snow preserving footprints of geese:
surely an illusion;
a tapestry of tortoise hairs:
what hope it can be done?
A crumbling house, the owners fled—
cold will-o'-the-wisps flickering.
An ancient palace, its foundation
overgrown with weeds.
Listen if you will to the gurgling
of water in the canal:
water really has no feelings, but seems to have them here.