Quiet Song: Xi Jun

The wind rises fierce, and the geese mourn as they fly south; gazing north toward the mountain passes, tears stream down my face.

I watch the fine steeds leap and gallop, and think of Chenghuang; I recall the dances of old, as if they were but a turn of the hand.

I think of my faraway hometown, and of old friends in the imperial capital.

I grieve that my kin are so far away, with only books for company.

Those lovely days of long ago seem like a dream, yet remain vivid before my eyes.

The longing since our parting spills forth like a mighty river flowing into the sea.

From Yumen, I turn eastward, yet can hardly tell whether my thoughts lie to the south or north.

I seek beautiful flowers to dispel my grief, only to realize at last that flowers cannot ease it.

I take up the vermilion brush to imitate a painting, and marvel at Prince Jiangdu’s artistry.

I once sang with sword in hand, sighing as I thought of Li Shier Niang.

The willows are all green, and I am startled by the spring breeze blowing beyond Yangguan.

Even in the western frontier, it is not cold; my heart flies with the wild geese, longing to return home.

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