Classic Poem

The days and months do not wish to tarry,
The four seasons urge each other on.
A cold wind sweeps the withered branches,
And fallen leaves cover the long road
My youthful vigor fails as the years revolve
And my black locks are already turning white.
When once the white signpost is raised above man's head
The road before him begins to seem narrow
My home is only a hostel by the wayside,
And I a traveler who must soon depart
On and on I travel—whither am I going?
On the Southern Mountain there is my ancient home.