The Coming of Autumn

A fearful blast through firmianas gives me pain.
Crickets weep white threads as lamps wane.
Who will read my books on green bamboo slips?
I tried to kill silverfish and bookworms yet again.

Tonight, thinking it through gets my mind quiet.
In the cold rain, I mourn a scholar and poet.
By fall graves, ghosts chant Bao’s poem of lament.
The old unearthed jade came from a wronged man’s
blood of regret.