(The author is one Tu Fu who lived between 713 - 770)
Tumult, weeping, many new ghosts.
Heartbroken, aging, alone, I sing
To myself. Ragged mist settles
In the spreading dusk. Snow scurries
In the coiling wind. The wineglass
Is spilled. The bottle is empty.
The fire has gone out in the stove.
Everywhere men speak in whispers.
I brood on the uselessness of letters.
Poetry Friday is being hosted by John at The Book Mine Set. It caught my eye that John notes that "the desire to settle permanently is sinking in." Right there with you, John!