The maples have grown old;
 Orchards have begun to wither.
 The reds and greens have faded.
 Climbing the heights, I
   Feel the chill of late Autumn.
 A ceaseless pounding sound
   Drowns out the setting sun.
 Remembered sorrows flock 
   To mind, making new sorrows.
 We are separated 
    By a thousand miles;
 From our two distant places
   We can't even meet in dreams.
 The rain stops, and the sky clears;
   One can see the twelve green peaks.
 Speechless, who could understand
   My angst, as I stand cliffside.
 I can write of my grief, but
   Will the clouds bring a reply?