Classic Poem

Bearing me and rearing me,
which was a greater favor?
No love in your arms for the first three years,
but for forty long years I watched your face.
Just like a sweet gourd vine entwining a crooked tree,
I did not think of a different mother who bore me.
One morning, eternal farewell, dark and light apart,
the blue sky spread calmly through my tears of blood.
Your voice and form still in my ears and eyes,
asleep, my soul is often easily startled.
A wind in the inner room desolately stirs the blinds,
and I wonder if you called me from above my pillow.