My complexion a withered yellow, topped by white frost,
worse still, I am banished over a thousand ri from home.
Once ensnared in the trappings of glory,
now I am an exile, imprisoned amid rustic weeds.
The moon, shining like a mirror, exposes no crime.
The wind, blowing with swordlike force, cannot end my protests.
Looking or listening, both make me shiver.
This year's autumn is my own personal autumn.