English Rendering
Through willow-lined lanes the autumn wind begins to rise,
The frontier town lies desolate under bleak skies.
A horse’s whinny fades into the distance—
Where has the rider gone?
From the watchtower, a lone horn moans.
My heart is heavy,
Made heavier by withered grass and thinning mist.
It feels like those years
When the general’s troops snaked through the desert sands.
I remember West Lake’s shores,
Where we floated in small boats with singing girls,
Making merry among evening flowers.
Are those companions still there?
Now, I imagine, emerald fades and crimson falls.
I scribble a poem on silk,
Waiting for wild geese to carry it south—
But fear they’ll rush past,
Bearing no word, breaking promises made.
