Returning Empty-Handed

Away, away, and away again, down the sorrowful road before the gate. On and on, and on again, I turn and turn, still full of longing. Longing, I look back once and see the willow before my window; north of the willow stands a tall building, its beaded curtains half drawn. Yesterday I was the woman upstairs, beneath the curtains teaching a parrot to speak; today I am an outsider beyond the wall, red tears staining my silk handkerchief. The space between the wall and the upstairs room is less than a hundred feet; how can it be that, though so close, we are separated as if by a thousand mountains? How tragic that we must part, never to meet again for all eternity. The parted cranes circle in vain; who will remember their mournful cries? I wander until daylight fades, then resolve to return. I tear the hem of my Xiang silk skirt and send my husband a letter through my tears. Poor strip of white silk, every character marked with crimson traces of blood. Each word brings a bitter sigh; old love still tugs at the heart. If you would take back the water you spilled, I would gladly bear your blows for my sins. Otherwise, I would rather die before you than live abandoned. Even in death, I have nothing more to say: I only wish to be buried in your family's soil. If I should become a heartbroken flower, at least I could bloom in your home.

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