On Wangcheng Road, in the late evening glow, a faint mist rises among the trees. The bright white moon veils itself and leans deep among the pine needles. People are heartless, making foolish accusations and suspicions, casting aside propriety and never returning. We wait until dusk, then walk together once more, carrying only our hurt and sorrow as we leave.
I think back to the days of our youth, when we often kept each other company among the reeds and gathered happily in the courtyard. The leaves fall and grow again, but the path is no longer familiar. I still pick up fallen leaves and wait in vain, for so long.
Even now, by the little cove beneath the green trees, the night feels as long as a year. I pluck a flower and talk to myself. Whom do I miss? My sorrow is too much to bear. I look around, listening to the pines whisper through the night with my companion.
