Such beauty, yet it pains me that a lovely woman should have so short a life. Who would ask after her in the stillness by the wall? The east wind at dusk blows aimlessly, scattering her rouge like powder. Look closely, my friend. Flowers and wine: since ancient times, Heaven has been stingy with both. The years fly by. Green shoots freeze, and the sounds of spring linger. What a regret to meet at such a time.
