Southeast

The duckweed parts, the south wind rises, and the new lotus leaves seem scented enough to stain the air.

A painted boat drifts, the long embankment stretches into the distance, and the weeping willows have just dried from the dew.

Oars rise and fall. We pass each other, exchanging faint smiles.

You are as lovely as a flower. From then on, the lotus fragrance drifts through my dreams.

In the little vermilion tower, the night is not yet over. The zither's notes choke with sorrow, the moon crosses the silver wall, and flowers and willows fade into shadow.

By the South Lake, the moon is just rising. A flute begins to play, and startled birds and geese weep in the cold.

You gently press the jade flute to your lips, following the sobbing notes of my zither.

I imagine your gentle face, your sleeves fluttering in the breeze.

We met before the summer solstice, and came to know each other as autumn waned and frost faded.

We stayed together through the cold by the broken bridge, and remained side by side as the rose fragrance faded.

We met eyes by the golden well, and leaned together beneath the moonlight at the railing.

We played in harmony, jade flute with icy strings. When we parted, the night watch had already reached its halfway point.

As evening falls, a chill settles in. I rest my head on a pillow in Jiangnan.

Memories steeped in lotus fragrance settle in the South Lake.

On the painted boat returning to those places, your lovely reflection, blue as water, is gone.

No one will ever read the poems I wrote again.

The lotus still smells as sweet, though we have forgotten each other in the southern city.

Tonight I play the icy strings again, and my fingers hold the longing I feel for you.

In the unforgettable haze of my dream, I let my tears fall beside the pillow.

In my loneliness, I beat the railing again and again, trimming the candle wick once more.

I want to ask if you still remember those days.

The roads on which we turned our backs have no end.

This love has become a sorrowful mystery.

Only regret remains, turning endlessly through the passing millennia.

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