Listening to Guqin in Autumn

Listening to Guqin in Autumn

The troughs lay barren
Unused hay stacked high
The horses have all gone home
To sleep in the sky.

Grey pastures they fled
And from his music die
Amber leaves to azure bed
The wind meanders.

The river ran red
T'was Beauty who made them bleed
Mourning, the monk cried
From the emptiness inside
As falling leaves filled his hand
But nothing his head.