在獄詠蟬

Singing of the Cicada in Prison

In the westlands the cicadas sing,

In southern cap my thoughts of home take wing.

How can I bear, with my dark-tressed frame,

To face the dirge that mourns a white-haired name?

Heavy with dew, they struggle, slow to fly;

Strong the wind, their voices sink and die.

No one believes in purity so high—

Who will speak the truth within my heart to the sky?