The grieving heart finds autumn days more bitter, each year stretched to an endless measure.
Hand in hand we climb the heights at dusk, the summit itself a fortress of sorrow.
Ever I lament the ancients' helpless schemes, watching modern fools lost in such delusion.
Yet by the east hedge, half-drunk, by lamplight I mend my chrysanthemum scroll alone.
Homeward! Homeward! The plaintive tune turns harsh.
Only the leftover chant of autumn cicadas remains.
Beyond the lakes and hills, by wind-swept railings, who now claims the moonlit couch?
I rue those days when lofty clouds dispersed, the heavenly path severed, perils so profound.
Even by the bridge, where mirrors are sold whole again, heartbreak lies beyond count.
Whose jade axe struck, startling the full orb to fall, losing the palaces of the upper sphere?
Was it Heaven's error, or the fair one's own mistake?
I regret my first longing, wrong to have dreamed of her, radiant in rainbow robes.
Where is she now? Through maple woods and frontier passes, I turn my head, recalling the divine abode, my soul drifting over rivers and lakes.
Time and again I tell the children of this earth: of jade towers with carved doors, of pure winds on hanging gardens.
The pipa's notes, often from the saddle, urging wine, for a thousand years could speak the alien tongue.
Alas, since ancient times, palace flowers are fated thin, the Han moon heartless; battlefields stay bleak, old friends turned to dust.
Haggard in Jiangnan, adrift in desolate villages, heartbroken, I've lost my Pear Garden troupe; the vast river fades, tears veiled by reed-flower rain.
Meeting a fated, romantic soul, my blue gown soaked through, I find no road for return.