To the tune of “Bodhisattva Aliens”
Soft breezes, mild sunshine,
Spring is still young.
The sudden change of the light
Brightened my spirit.
But upon awakening from slumber,
I felt the chill air;
The plum flower withered in my hair.
Where can I call my native land?
Forget – I cannot, except in wine
When I drown my care.
Incense was lighted when I went to sleep;
Though the embers are now cold,
The warmth of wine still burns on.