Du Xunhe

Her man the war took. She abides

In a roof of reed. Hemp‑cloth her wear;

Her hair is thistledown the wind dries.

The mulberry‑trees are gone. The tax

Stands. Fields are waste. The levy

Of grain grows. She grubs herbs, with the root‑sax;

She breaks green wood, leaf‑smoke to heavy.

Go deeper in. Still deeper. None

Goes deep enough to miss the tally‑man

Or the conscripting‑lot. It is not done.

I see you to Ku-su.

Homes there, sleeping by the stream.

Ancient palace, few abandoned spots.

And by the harbor, many little bridges.

In the night market, lotus, fruit and roots.

On the spring barges, satins and gauze.

Know, far off, the moon still watches.

Think of me there, in the fisherman’s song.

Knowing beauty my misfortune,

I face my mirror with a sigh.

To please a fastidious emperor,

How shall I array myself?....

Birds flock and sing when the wind is warm,

Flower-shadows climb when the sun is high --

And year after year girls in the south

Are picking hibiscus, dreaming of love!