نظرة الربيع

نظرة الربيع

The state is destroyed, but mountains and rivers remain;

The city in spring is overgrown with grass and trees.

Moved by the times, flowers bring tears;

Hating separation, birds startle the heart.

Beacon fires have burned for three months;

A letter from home is worth ten thousand gold.

My white hair, scratched, grows ever thinner;

Soon it will be too sparse to hold a hairpin.