Classic Poem

Easily torn, following frost, many shredded sheets.
Come autumn, I'm too lazy to copy new poems on them.
That one trunk stands emaciated outside the dark stairs,
glory and decline in half a year before a fancy rock.
No longer a parasol that blocks the evening sun,
it doesn't disturb my window sleep in rains at night.
Do not say it loses its presence in wind and snow:
it once made it into Wan Wei's painting, legend says.