Gray sky. A rooster crows.
Bitter, I look out on thickets and folds.
I haven't shaken grief's rattle, yet it clatters.
I haven't rung sorrow's bell, though it tolls.
Their noise only drags me down, angry
with a fate that says I'm much too bold.
Men of talent, learned men, where are you?
Am I supposed to walk as if stooped and old?
The Poetry of Ho Xuan Huong, Translated by John Balaban
Read Selected Poems