The countless newly dead may lament the battles; As an old man, I shall
alone mumble my sadness. The whirling wind forces the snow into a
mad dance, The confused clouds press down in the dusk. Of what use
is the drinking ladle when there is not a drop in the winepot? The ashes
look red only because I imagine the stove is burning. Not a word from
the several prefectures! Preposterous! Preposterous!