Clear autumn at headquarters, wu-tung trees cold beside the well;
I spend the night alone in the river city,using up all of the candles.
Sad bugle notes sound through the long night as I talk to myself;glorious moon hanging in mid-skybut who looks?
The endless dust-storm of troubles cuts off news and letters;the frontier passes are perilous,travel nearly impossible.
I have already suffered ten years, ten years of turmoil and hardship;now I am forced to accept a perch on this one peaceful branch.*
