Being idle in the wooden building, I opened a window.
The morning breeze and bright moon lingered together.
I thought of my native village far away, cut off by clouds and mountains.
On the little island the wailing of cold, wild geese can be faintly heard.
The hero who has lost his way can talk meaninglessly of the sword.
The poet at the end of the road can only ascend a tower.

-anonymous Chinese immigrant detained at Angel Island

לוחית ממסלול השירה של ברקלי.

פרטים נוספים ניתן למצוא כאן לחצו לערך באתר שלטי הרחוב האולטימטיבי