to the tune of
Wave Pure of Sand (I)
Li Hou Zhu (937-978?)

 

 

These memories that can only be grieved for.

This scene I must face, this scene so hard to get rid of.

The fall wind in the garden. The moss taking over the steps.

The screen hanging beaded over the closed door—

Why open it. Who comes.

My gold sword sunk into ground.

My spirit lost among the long weeds.

Then in the cool night. Then in the quiet sky. Then the moon blossoming open.

My mind goes back to the jade palaces, those old hallways

but now only the light glows hollow on the waters of Ch'in-huai.

 

 

 

translated by Ken Chen

 

 

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