In the fall, you begin to sing
to a captive overwhelmed by worries.
It is unbearable to hear you scratching
your black wings in a sad song
to a white-haired prisoner like me.
The autumn dew drops falling,
falling too heavy, you cannot fly high.
The cold wind drowns your melody.
Who comes to believe you’re so noble
and pure? Who comes to address
all the grievous wrongs afflicted
on an innocent man like me?