Qi Gu: The Ten-Year Series

Ten years of life and death, both dim and distant. I do not dwell on you, yet I cannot forget. A lonely grave a thousand miles away, with no one to share my grief. Even if we met again, you would hardly know me: my face weathered, my temples frost-white. Last night, in a dream, I suddenly returned home. By the little window, you were combing your hair. We gazed at each other without a word, with only a thousand streams of tears. I know where my heart will break year after year: beneath the moonlit night, on the low hill of young pines.