Outside my screen, petals collect in heaps of red
and snow-white.
This reminds me that after the blooming
of the cherry-apple tree
It is time to lament the dying spring.
Singing and drinking have come to an end;
jade cups are empty;
Lamps are flickering.
Hardly able to bear the sorrows and regrets
of my dreams,
I hear the mournful cry of the cuckoo.
Similar Posts
Search. Search. Seek. Seek.
Sorrow. Sorrow. Pain. Pain.Hot flashes. Sudden chills.Stabbing pains. Slow agonies.I can find no peace.I drink two cups, then three bowls,Of clear wine until I can’tStand up against a gust of wind.Wild geese fly over head.They wrench my heart.They were our friends in the old days.Gold chrysanthemums litterThe ground, pile up, faded, dead.This season I could…
We shall not ask for the precious pearl of the Duke of Sui,
We merely ask for the recent news of our homeland.The Palace of Spiritual Illumination must be still there,surrounded by desolation.What’s happened to the stone statues buried deep in the grass,still guarding the Imperial tombs?Is it true that our people left behind in the occupied territoriesare still planting mulberry trees and hemp?Is it true that the…
To the tune of ‘Lamentation’
I took off my ornaments;The plum flower withered in my hair.Recovered from tipsiness,the lingering smell of winebroke my fond dreambefore my dreaming soul could findmy way home.All is quiet.The moon lingers,And the emerald screen hangs low.I caress the withered flower,Fondle the fragrant petals,Trying to bring back the lost time.
To the tune ‘Red Lips’
indolentI rise with a slender handput rightmy hairthe dew thickon frail blossomssweat seeping throughmy thin robeand seeingmy friend comestockings torngold hairpins askewI walk overblushinglean against the doorturn my headgrasp the dark green plumsand smell them.
To the tune of ‘Song of Peace’
I have often gathered plum flowers,intoxicated with their beauty.Fondling them impudentlyI got my robe wet with their lucid tears.This year I have drifted to the cornerof the sea and the edgeof the horizon,My temples have turned grey.Judging by the gust of the evening wind,It is unlikely I will againenjoy the plum blossoms.
Breeze soft, sun frail, spring still early.
But when I rose from sleep I felt a chill.I put plum blossoms in my hair.Now they are withered.Where is my homeland?I forgot it only when drunk.The sandal wood incense burned out while I slept.Now the perfume has gone,But the wine has not gone.