From Poetry Daily this morning:
The country is ruined, yet the mountains and rivers remain.
In the city in spring, the grass and trees grow dense and wild.
In this sorrowful time, the flowers are wet with tears.
Amid our terrible scattering, the birds startle my heart.
The war-fires have burned for three months.
Any word from home is worth ten thousand coins.
I have worn thin my short white wisps with scratching.
Soon they will no longer hold my hairpin.