Classic Poem

At fifty a white-headed old man,
South, North, I fly from troubles of the State.

Coarse cloth wound round dried bones
Walk back, forth; alas am still not warm.

Already failing, illness has entered in;
All people within the Four Seas are as mud, charcoal.

Below Heaven, on Earth, throughout ten thousand li ,
Is no place where a body can be left.

Wife children still follow me;
I turn head, we sigh in grief.

In old home weeds, a mound of ruins;
Our neighbors all divided, scattered.

From this time returning road obscure;
Tears are wept dry on banks of River Xiang.