Remembering the Flute on Phoenix Terrace: Incense Cold in the Gold Lion

The incense is cold in the golden lion censer; the quilt is tossed in red waves. I rise and listlessly comb my hair. I let the jeweled casket gather dust, and the sun climb the curtain hook. So afraid of the bitter grief of parting—so many things I would say, and then leave unsaid. Lately I have grown thin: not from the after-effects of wine, and not from grieving over autumn.

Enough, enough—this time you go, and though they sing 'Yangguan' a thousand times over, still you cannot be held. I think of the man of Wuling far away, and mist locking the tower of Qin. Only the flowing water before the tower should think of me, gazing fixedly all the day long. And in that gazing, from now on is added one more stretch of new sorrow.