TO MY SON, YÜ

An old-timer’s just a worn-out child. I can’t manage alone.

Though this mind is companion to sage ancient masters,

everything’s gone: firewood and water, servants, strength.

And I’ve even pawned my ch’in and books. It’s that bad.

Mortar and pestle are silent: I’m too sick to grind medicine.

The granary’s swept out: there’s nervous talk of hunger.

I still have a few years left. You’ll need to look after me.

Those misty ten-thousand-mile views will just have to wait.