Passing The Night At Headquarters

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-sky

but 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.*