Classic of Poetry

In large volume, those flowing waters Go to the court of the sea. Rapid is that flying falcon, Now soaring, now resting. Alas! among my brethren, My countrymen, my friends, No one is willing to think of the prevailing disorder; [But] who has not parents [to suffer from it]?

In large volume, those flowing waters Roll on their swollen flood. Rapid is that flying falcon, Now soaring, now rising higher. When I think of those lawless men, Now I rise up, now I walk about. The sorrow of my heart Cannot be repressed nor forgotten.

Rapid is that flying falcon, Yet he keeps along the middle of the height. The talk of the people,— Is there no means of stopping it? If my friends would reverently [watch over themselves], Would slanderous speeches be made?