The Broken Orchid

By plum blossoms, we first met beneath a moon as pale as frost; the scent of medicine and poetry lingered in secret.

He placed first in the imperial examinations and bowed three times; by candlelight, we made a thousand promises.

The snow lies cold on the northern frontier, but the letter from home burns warm; spring runs deep in the south, while the swallows’ calls sound cold.

Ask not when I shall return. In the rain-soaked night, we share a single lamp across the rivers and lakes.

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