Alone in a tower, wind whipping through my sleeves,
A waning cloud, a moonlit shadow, a sword's eerie ring.
The lotus has fallen, the red candle weeps itself away.
Who says spring waters bear only drifting duckweed, while people waste away?
The song ends and all scatter; the pipa falls silent.
I lean against the railings, one after another, but no one answers the flute.
Lost in melancholy, I drink to drown my sorrows,
And at last know the taste of longing: a thousand lines of tears...
