In these autumn days the cicadas are singing, and sinking
This captive with a southern cap into thought.
I cannot endure their dark, downy shadows
Coming here to chirp at my white head of hair.
When the dew is heavy it is hard for them to fly;
When a strong wind blows their voice is easily drowned.
No one believes in creatures noble and pure;
Who will convey what is in this heart of mine?