诉衷情·眉意

At dawn I roll up the curtains in the light frost; I breathe upon my hands and try the plum-blossom makeup. All because I carry this grief of parting, I paint my brows long, like the far-off hills.

Thinking on the past, grieving over the fading bloom — how easily one is wounded. About to sing, I first compose my face; about to smile, I knit my brows instead: of all things, most heartbreaking.