Fleeing with wife and child, my hair turned grey.
In dreams I half make out a mother's tears,
While on the city walls the chieftans' banners change.
Having to see my friends turned into ghosts,
I snatch an angry poem from the swords,
Chant it, and bow my head. I cannot write it down.
The moonlight makes my black gown gleam like water.
Lu Xun (1931)
