Silk-Washing Stream

The red lotus scent fades, and the jade mat grows cold with autumn. I gently loosen my silk robe and climb alone into my boat. Who has sent me a letter from beyond the clouds? As the wild geese return in formation, moonlight fills the western tower.

Flowers drift away of their own accord, and water flows on by itself. One heart full of longing, two places weighed down by sorrow. There is no way to dispel this feeling: it leaves my brow, only to settle in my heart.

Li Qingzhao, “A Sprig of Plum Blossoms”