At dawn, clouds stir the breeze beneath the fan. When the song ends, where has the peach blossom figure gone?
In the blink of an eye, beauty fades, never to return. Wenji does not regret how long her pipa strings are.
Wine in hand, I whisper, "The water is in the bottle." Since parting from my siblings, I have followed the changing fashions.
In late spring, the clear waves make my heart ache. I never knew my dark hair would turn gray in the twilight of my years.
Keeping time with the beat, chopsticks in hand, let us enjoy ourselves beneath the willows along the Mirror Lake.
I suddenly dream of the days of green plums and yellow rain, of an umbrella of purple clouds with eighty-four ribs.
When will the one who left return home? The road to spring stretches far, and the journey wears on.
We were childhood friends, innocent and without suspicion, drinking together from the same cup.
Dusk gives way to dawn as I wait for your return. Moss grows thick, and purple wisteria falls in the western garden.
Verdigris spreads over the hibiscus by the gate. I lean on the railing and look out, but you have not returned.
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