Poem 13

I urge my carriage on, out through the eastern gate,
see in the distance the graves north of the wall.
How the white poplar trees murmur and sigh
and pines and cedars crowd the edge of the road.
Beneath them lie the bodies of those long dead,
and the thick blackness of the long night gathers,
hiding them as they sleep beneath the Yellow Spring.
A thousand years will pass but they will not wake.
Like a flowing stream the seasons constantly change
and the years pass, each brief as the morning dew.
A man's life is but a fleeting moment,
and lacks the endurance of metal and stone.
Generations follow each other for a thousand years.
It is a span that no sage or worthy can match,
though with potions and mixtures he seeks immortality.
     Ah how many are fooled.
     Better to drink fine wine,
     clothe yourself in silk.