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Poetry: Politics



All day, I move among courtiers.
Their faces are unfamiliar:
all I see are bobbing caps.
The autumn wind carries me,
the restless sound of leaves
gives warning to those ahead.
A life of service, justly rewarded,
with honour and high position.

My wife and daughter died
in Hunan. I do not mourn.
At night, alone, I study, or
watch the ants, at work
in my garden.
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