Once more I cross the bridge where willow catkins drift, and there she is, lovelier than a painting, beautiful as a plum blossom.
A fleeting glimpse, misty willows. White dew and red maples: could this be the sorrow of parting?
With a hand, I command the world; my longing stretches to the horizon. Let this love be witnessed, as we grow old together like mandarin ducks.
