Since ancient times there have been cast-off wives; cast-off wives have a place to return.
Today I, your concubine, take leave of you, my lord. Having left you, where am I to go?
My natal family is scattered and gone; I weep bitterly on the road I came by.
I recall before I married you, hearing of your gallant ways.
Silks and brocades, you gave in lengths; there was the gift of a thousand in gold.
At fifteen I was promised to you; at twenty my allegiance shifted to you.
Not long after our hair was bound together, I was parted from you by distant mountains and rivers.
Every household is full of joy; I, the lonely concubine, forever pity myself.
The secluded chamber holds much resentful longing; full beauty does not last ten years.
Longing goes in cycles; my pillow and mat give birth to flowing springs.
The flowing springs choke, unswept; alone I dream of the mountain-pass road.
By the time I see you return, my lord, I have already grown old.
The way of things despises decline and lowliness; the new favorite is just now lovely.
Hiding tears, I leave the old room; my heartbreak is worse than autumn grass.
Since I became your wife, you were east and I west.
Behind the silk curtains, hatred lasts till dawn; my jade-like face weeps a lifetime.
Since our separation long ago, I've not noticed the dust growing thick.
I often disliked the solitary tortoiseshell hairpin, still envying paired mandarin ducks.
The years chase frost and sleet; how can a lowly concubine last long?
In the cold pond, lotus blossoms fall; the autumn wind scatters willow catkins.
Comparing them to my haggard face, I return empty-handed, holding old things.
Where shall I entrust my remaining life? Who will deign to pull me close?
Your favor is already severed; in what year or month shall we meet again?
I regret pouring the twin-cup wine, vainly making the heart-knot.
The dodder vine clings to the green pine, valuing mutual dependence.
Duckweed losing the green water—tell me, how is it to flow?
I do not lament your abandoning me; I lament my own karma.
I remember when I first married you, your little sister just leaned against the bed.
Today I take leave of you, my lord, your little sister is as tall as I.
Turning my head, I tell the little sister: Do not marry a man like your elder brother.