The dead are gone and with them we cannot converse. The living are here and ought to have our love. Leaving the city-gate I look ahead And see before me only mounds and tombs. The old graves are ploughed up into fields, The pines and cypresses are hewn for timber. In the white aspens sad winds sing; Their long murmuring kills my heart with grief. I want to go home, to ride to my village gate. I want to go back, but there’s no road back.