Awake from chanting Li Sao's dream, I trace the old path to the city wall.
I ask the eastward stream: once you join the sea, will you ever turn and flow back west?
Swallows' dreams, rumors of a lost kingdom; pale mist curls around palace walls.
My mournful soul, broken, waits to follow the swallows in their coming and going.
Looking back on ten years, in gardens of brocade, we rode on clouds and chanted rain.
Did we ever face the precious lute, a knowing ear? For whom did the grand carriage lightly halt?
Leaning on the east wind, sorrow long, laughter short; deep waters and clouds, spring river at dusk.
To keep my traveler's heart company, only this half-strand of cold stored in my robe.
Lofty feelings vainly versed, orchid-girded, iris-sashed— since ancient times, fine brows invite envy.
Heroes, arriving south of the river, age so easily.
Who comes after? The scene wounds the heart; tears stain the wine vessels.
Climbing hills, feasting by water, pouring libations across the river, pouring out fervor to answer the times,
Entrusting rise and fall to a laugh, to whirling song and dance.
Sober alone, hard to follow the mountain lord; flags stir as he mounts his horse, startling gulls and egrets anew.
From the perilous pavilion, hatred peaks; cold fragrance falls utterly, fearing to speak the heartbreak line.
How many stars dot the emerald? Spring shallow, cold deep, powder nurtured, scent hidden, butterflies clear, bees gaunt.
Thus, with my lone colored brush and fragrant paper, I plan to seize wandering threads to bind this parting grief.
Then, swiftly— to inscribe it onto the singing zither's pillar.
The melody lofty, the mode ancient.
And where is that person now? Who can match, who can harmonize with this deep purity?