Staring at the Sycamore Tree

She would not know that the man who had traveled far away was sitting in a corner of the market, watching her walk by with a basket in hand from a distance. She won't hear my faint sigh when she and the vendor discuss the price. She doesn't know how many times I've returned to Jiangting in my dreams, broken off spring willow trees, and placed them by the well where she draws water to wash her clothes. She doesn't understand that I still recite the oath I made back then, and every time I miss the gongs, drums, and sedan chair, that oath hurts my heart again. How could she understand that I tried to forget her appearance through the mountains and rivers, and searched for someone who looked like her in a foreign manor. I was still the one who left her without saying goodbye, the one who ruined her childhood, the one who let her down. When she walked into another roof, the empty city of her youth was returned to me.