When I was young I listened to the rain
On the Towers of Song:
Red Candles glowed through thin gauze curtains,
Bedroom curtains, all night long.

In my prime of life I listened to the rain
On the roof of a boat:
From the westering wind a wild goose echoed
The exile's anguish dumb in my throat.

Now that I'm old I listen to the rain
On the temple tiles:
Hair flecked with white, I sit and wonder
Why meetings, partings, tears and smiles
Prove in the end to have had no meaning.

It is nearly day.
I sit and listen as the rain's pit patter
On the steps below me dies away.