Remembering the Flute on Phoenix Terrace

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A thousand miles of longing, a heart full of tender emotions, I offer sacrifices to the wind and moon by the window.
And so it is, chrysanthemums are just beginning to bloom, osmanthus is pale, leaves have fallen and branches are mottled. Lonely on the vast sea, like duckweed, I gather, the hibiscus -scented curtains are
overturned by the waves.
From now on, the waves and rain in my poems will never reach Wushan.
Stealing pleasure. I ask Heaven, but it remains silent; yesterday's events are like incense and candles burning out. Even if I were to be executed, subjected to the three palaces and six dismemberments, I would not utter a sound. Who would believe that men and women in this turbid world, driven by desire, would have such leisure? Let us not speak of our private affairs, whether short or long.

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Remembering the Flute on Phoenix Terrace

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