Incense rests chilled in its gold burner,
and my quilt is overturned in red waves.
Slowly I rise in the morning to comb my hair.
My mirror of precious stones fills with dust,
the rising sun mounts our curtain hooks,
and I fear the bitter pain of our separation.
So close to sharing my heart, I can’t speak.
I am thinner lately, wasting away
not from wine illness,
not from seasonal grief or autumn sadness.
Cease, cease . . .
This time, my love, when you left me,
not a thousand, ten thousand Yang Guan
songs of departure could restrain you.
Now remembering you, my Wu Ling beloved,
when fog shuts me alone inside my Qing chamber,
when only the water flowing before our residence
returns my solitary gaze, one lasting through the day,
I focus unwaveringly on that moment . . .
adding yet another length of sorrow.