To the tune of “Wu Ling Spring”
Wind ceased, the dust is scented
With the fallen flowers.
Though day is getting late, I am too weary
To attend to my hair.
Things remain as ever, yet he is here no more,
And all is finished.
Fain would I speak, but tears flow first.
They say that at the Twin Brooks
Spring is still fair.
I, too, wish to row a boat there.
But I am afraid that the little skiff
On the Twin Brooks
Could not bear the heavy load of my grief.