My homeland has been on my mind recently, so this seemed apposite:
By the cold lamp of an inn, alone and sleepless,
Why does this traveler’s heart feel sad?
Tonight my native land beckons me from a thousand miles away;
Tomorrow my frosty temples will start to age another year.
And aren’t they all doing the same: simply containing themselves,
If to contain oneself means: to transform the world outside
And wind and rain and patience of spring
And guilt and restlessness and disguised fate
And darkness of earth at evening
All the way to the errancy, flight, and coming on of clouds,
All the way to the vague influence of the distant stars
Into a hand full of inwardness.
Now it lies free of cares in the open roses.