Getting News of My Younger Brother
The wind blows the purple thorn-bush,
its colors darken with the spring yard in evening.
Its flowers fall, leaving the old branches,
the wind turns them, but they have no way to go back.
This kind letter from my flesh and blood is valued,
we drift here and there, it’s hard to meet.
Still there are tears that form a river,
passing through the heavens, again pouring eastward.