A'jiao, relying on her peerless grace, knew not the emperor's favor was hard to keep.
One day, autumn waters saw the lotus fall; for years, Changmen Gate locked in spring grass deep.
She pitied her fate, like fish discarded old; all former love now shifted to Zifu new.
Alone at night, on fragrant pillow sleepless; the slanting moon on golden latch shines through.
At dawn, the carriage sound in Yong Lane drew near; with startled joy, she thought his royal coach did come.
Standing long in the wind, awaiting grace; but it was only distant thunder's hum.
Each year, the Weaving Maid meets Herd Boy true; by Baizi Pond, they feasted side by side.
Since she fell from the favored palace life, no more she climbs to thread needles, love denied.
Long she recalls the childhood betrothal time; deep love in golden house—could it decline?
Now suddenly she feels cold as ice; feigning warmth to others, she can't design.
In sorrow, watching rare birds perch on bare trees; peacocks chase, phoenixes sing in flight.
Pacing, deep-frowning, born of hopeless gaze; who can for her turn back the emperor's might?
They say the thirst-stricken Linqiong guest, with matchless prose, a master of the page.
With gold he bought wine for Wenjun, hoping to move the king to ease her cage.
The rhapsody done, won the court's compassion; phoenix-beak glue mended the broken string.
Not like Zhaojun, who left Han's land forlorn, buried forever under foreign sky.