Classic Poem

Drawing the moon from a well
fell in and died
in a bucket.

In long twisted clouds
buried and killed, mountain top's dream
cut off in winds.
The highlands, ah
the days passed in the highlands!
One night at the border
a white horse in deep snow
screamed, stalks of Musong millet screamed, throats
torn, slashed
down—azalea
blossoms in sudden frost.

When the mouths of the bells of all kinds
of lovely voices, of all
the magnificent chimes
were shut, tight
shut,
and the night was deep,
the lightning-filled night
was deep
those who were young
died in the sin of waking
alone to bring a candle light.

Left nodding, left
shaking a head,
left the groove worn round a dry well
and died in bucket.
Drawing the moon from a well
fell in and died.