Classic Poem

In the chest of my lord, there are mortal wounds.
Bees are swarming in the bright middle of the day.
Within the great mansion, lights keep flickering out.
My eyes have not slept and they long for sleep.
The hooting of the owl is heard, making men afraid.
The words of the worthy old woman are not finished,
she who scatters water and rice and listens
to the bodiless voice of an oracle! Tuti drummer!
Bard! Dancing woman who sings! You deserve
pity! For you to stay alive in this world
is hard! But far harder it is for me to think
of going on living like the widows who have shed
their ornaments, water trickling down my close-shaven
head caked with mud, and for food the seeds
of the small white lily that was his garland of war!