Classic Poem

I inspected your clothes chests, donated them to the monk.
Still your scent remains and I cannot resist the tears.
A breeze to the drape for your soul leaves the incense cold.
Half the night a freezing rain, before the altar, the lamp.

In his old age losing his spouse, I think of his grief,
the only thing left to soothe himself now, a female child.
Tears over the sorrow of your death keep rolling down,
but feigning cheerfulness I wipe them secretly while tending him.