Across the fragrant grass, a lone boat is moored. The mountains draw in their dark brows; the sky hangs like a curtain. My heart sinks in sorrow, helpless beneath the fading clouds and the last notes of the horn. I would gladly pluck a blossom and wear it with the snow, lest it fall with the wind when the wine wears off. I would lovingly keep it here as a token of longing, but who could I entrust it to?
