and yet how his mournful song moves us.
Out in the grass his cry was a tremble,
but now he trills beneath our bed, to share his sorrow.
I lie still beside you, finding no release:
you, old wife, you suffer quiet through till dawn.
The song of our selves may move us, restless,
through long nights. The cricket’s song of autumn
holds us still.
– Du Fu. House Cricket
translated by J. P. Seaton