SPRING

:::SPRING:::

All ruins, the empire; mountains and rivers in view.
To the city, spring: grass and trees are thick.
The times strike. Before flowers, tears break loose.
Separation cuts. Birds startle our heart.
Beacon fires continued for three months on end.
A letter from home is worth thousands of gold pieces.
White hair, scratched, becomes thinner and thinner,
So thin it can hardly hold a pin.
The nation shattered, mountains and river remain;
city in spring, grass and trees burgeoning.
Feeling the times, blossoms draw tears;
hating separation, birds alarm the heart.
Beacon fires three months in succession,
a letter from home worth ten thousand in gold.
White hairs, fewer for the scratching,
soon too few to hold a hairpin up.
White birds over the grey river.
Scarlet flowers on the green hills.
I watch the Spring go by and wonder
If I shall ever return home.
In fallen States hills and streams are found,
Cities have Spring, grass and leaves abound;
Though at such times flowers might drop tears,
Parting from mates, birds have hidden fears:
The beacon fires have now linked three moons,
Making home news worth ten thousand coins;
An old grey head scratched at each mishap
Has dwindling hair, does not fit its cap!
--Sicilian