A mist of grief hangs over the long day; the incense burns low in its golden beast.
The Double Ninth Festival comes around once more. By the jade pillow and gauze curtains, the chill of midnight seeps in.
After dusk, I drink by the eastern hedge, and a faint fragrance fills my sleeves.
Do not say my heart is untouched: the west wind lifts the curtain, and I am thinner than the yellow flowers.
Theme: ...
