Classic Poem

The dead are gone and with them we cannot converse;
The living are here and ought to have our love
Leaving the city gate I look ahead
And see before me only mounds and tombs
The old graves are ploughed up into fields,
The pine and cypresses are hewn for timber
In the white aspens sad winds sing;
Their long murmuring kills my heart with grief.
I want to go home, to ride to my village gate;
I want to go back, but there's no road back.